John Connor: Origins
by gregor20
Summary: The story picks up from the cliffhanger ending season 2. How will John fulfill his desitny as humankind's savior? What obstacles will he need to overcome? What wil motivate him? Can he do this without Sarah?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The characters included in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and Josh Friedman.

**Author's Note:** The first chapter is mostly a re-hash of what you already know. I filled in the blanks with some of the characters' mind sets and thoughts.

Some days are better left never leaving one's bed. For the Connors, Sarah and her son, John, the last year had seen too many of those days, but it seemed that the battle with Skynet was nearing a critical juncture.

Since 1984, the Connors had been evading the attacks of Skynet, the computer system destined to become self-aware and take over the world, destroying humankind in the process. First a lone assassin—a terminator, a cybornetic organism designed by Skynet to infiltrate and kill human targets—was sent nearly 50 years back through time to kill Sarah, thus preventing the birth of John, who was destined to lead the humans to victory over the machines.

Failing this, Skynet's second option was to send another assasin back through time to a second point of contact with the Connors—1997—again in Los Angeles, to kill John. This too was unsuccessful, but the computer system remained dedicated to the task, sending a multitude of killers at the younger version of John.

These attacks confirmed two facts that Sarah had always feared: first, Skynet would never stop its attempts to kill John; and second, Judgment Day, the moment the computers unleash nuclear devastation on humankind, still loomed menacingly in the not-so-distant future.

More recently, the death of Sarah's old lover, Charley Dixon, who was protecting John from an attack by Skynet, began a series of events that would ulitmately lead to mankind's salvation. Then, on the trail of Caliba, a company apparently collaborating with Skynet, the Connors had saved Savannah Weaver, all of 6-years-old, from a similar fate. This mission cost the life of Derek Reese, John's uncle and another of his protectors from the future.

Thinking Savannah had been kidnapped, the police finally caught up with Sarah, who was actually holding Savannah in exchange for a meeting with her mother, Catherine, the head of the mysterious Zeira Corporation. John and Cameron, a cyborg that John of the future had sent back in time to protect his younger self and his mother, were forced to rescue Sarah from jail, an impossible task made possible by the terminator's combat capabilities.

Having accomplished the unthinkable, Cameron, Sarah and John evaded police and arrived at Zeira for the meeting with Weaver. James Ellison, a former FBI agent and the head of the corporation's security, escorted the latter two to Weaver's penthouse office, while the cyborg covertly investigated the building's basement.

Strangely, Weaver knew about Skynet, knew about Cameron's planned attack and, most disturbingly of all, knew who John was—the future leader of humankind.

But before Sarah could get her head around this information, an aircraft appeared in the window behind Weaver and suddenly hurtled itself suicidily at the office.

The four survived, but only because Weaver had transformed into a metal shield at the last moment, protecting the humans. It was a liquid-metal cyborg, just like the assasin sent to kill John in 1997, except this time, the machine was helping the humans.

The group escaped the drone's attack and scurried down the stairs of Zeira, towards the basement.

"We need to get out—they're trying to kill my son!" Sarah said to their terminatrix foe-turned-friend.

"No they're trying to kill my son!" Weaver corrected her. "Just like you are!"

"I'm sure she's done it," Sarah answered, referring to Cameron's planned destruction of Zeira's basement project. Sarah and John's visit with Weaver, after all, had merely been a diversion for Cameron's main assault.

"You better hope not," Weaver said in her peculiar Scottish accent. "Your John might save the world, but he can't do it without mine."

Finally at basement level three, the four quickly moved past the crumpled body of a security guard. He was either dead or unconscious, but there were clearly greater concerns, so they pressed on.

John, in fact, hurried past everyone else. Cameron said she wasn't 100 percent after the damage she had taken in rescuing Sarah from jail, and given her erratic behavior lately, he was understandably concerned.

Beyond that, John sensed closure was approaching. _Could this be the defeat of Skynet before Judgment Day? Was this the moment everyone had been hoping for? Could he actually avoid his "destiny?" Would the deaths of Kyle, Riley, Charley, Derek and everyone else finally mean something?_

It was all dashed in a heartbeat, however, and confusion reigned instead as he entered the laboratory. John was expecting to find evidence of a massive battle between two killing machines—broken furnitue and walls, smashed equipment, and hopefully the shattered hulk of one T-888.

Instead, Cameron's lifeless body sat slumped in a chair, her torso and head still riddled with bullet holes from Sarah's rescue. There was also no sign of John Henry, the former T-888 known to the Connors as Cromartie, which Zeira was now using as the anthropomorphic portion of their AI. In fact, John was so startled by what he saw that the others finally had a chance to catch up to him.

John couldn't tell if Cameron was deactivated or rebooting. To answer his own query, he quickly moved over to inspect her.

"Her chip—it's gone!" John announced, angrily. Glancing around, he then noticed Cameron's switch-blade on the table in front of them, open, with some skin and blood on its tip, presumably from Cameron's head. On the other side of a computer keyboard, was the unattached end of John Henry's interface cord. The implication was clear and John lost his temper.

"Well, where is he? The, the John Henry…" John stammered, yelling at Weaver. "He took her chip. Where did he go?"

Weaver briefly examined Cameron's head. "He didn't take the chip—she gave it to him," she announced, matter-of-factly.

"John," Sarah said, nodding at the computer monitors.

They all read, "I'm sorry John" in a repeating loop.

John's heart sank and he looked blankly at his mother as a dark realization rapidly coalesced in his mind.

"Where is he?" John asked Weaver, this time with considerably more control than the first.

"Not where," Weaver corrected. "When."

Weaver was clearly several steps ahead of the other three in her investigation and was adjusting the controls on a console next to the John Henry AI.

Ellison had finally heard enough, though. Speechless since the elevator ride to Weaver's penthouse, he needed to say something.

"What do you mean, 'When?'" he asked.

Sarah wasn't concerned with John Henry's absence, however. Her eyes had been glued on the AI.

"I know that, I've seen it before," she said to John, referring specifically to a small, black computer tower at the center of the whole contraption.

John turned and saw what she was staring at.

"Is that the Turk?" he asked his mother, but he didn't wait for a reply to the obvious question. "That's Andy Goode's Turk."

"Three dots," Sarah replied, almost apologetically, referring to a triangle of LEDs on the front of the computer. A dying messenger from the future had left the Connors several clues for battling Skynet by writing the clues in his own blood on their basement wall before he died. Most of the clues had panned out into something tangible, but the three dots remained a mystery. Until now.

Weaver continued her adjustments, but now it was Sarah's turn to be angry.

"You lying terminator bitch," she hissed at Weaver. "You're builidng Skynet!"

Weaver turned from the console, which was beginning a countdown, from 25. Puzzled a little, she said, "No, I was building something to fight it. And I'd watch who's calling who a bitch."

_Touche_, Sarah thought, twisting her neck in acknowledgment of the cyborg. But if meant it as an insult, Weaver clearly had very thick "skin" and was moving on.

"Coming, James?" she asked her security chief.

"Coming?" Ellison said, clealy confused.

"After John Henry," Weaver answered, "Our boy."

"He's not my boy, and you…." Ellison answered. He'd seen the terminators, the AI, the synthetic blood, the robotic parts, and all the death and mayhem they could produce, but Weaver's deception and sudden revelation had his head spinning.

"Do you mind picking up Savannah, then?" Weaver added, almost comically. "Gymnastics ends at 5:30."

Ellison was speechless. He wondered if the child was a machine as well.

The countdown had reached 10 and the telltale signs of a time displacment bubble were beginning to appear. Electrical arcs bounced off a blueish-purple sphere that was suddenly forming around Weaver, John, Sarah and Cameron.

John locked eyes with his mother. They were jumping through time—again.

"John, we can't," Sarah cautioned, as she backed out of the bubble.

"He's got her chip," John pleaded. "He's got her!"

There was something beyond desperation in John's voice. They had been so close to victory and to have it snatched away like this, seemingly at the last second, was infuriating and frustrating.

Moreover, John thought, it was frightening. For the last year, John and Cameron had been nearly inseparable. John of 2027 had sent the cyborg back to 1999 to protect his younger self. In that time, the two had learned much about each other's strengths and weaknesses. Could Skynet use that information against them if John Henry was to fall into their hands?

But John was also driven by something else, something besides his destiny. He had grown very close to Cameron, and even though she wasn't human, he felt he owed it to her to get some answers. He was too late in solving the mystery with Riley, but he was determined not to let that happen again, even if Cameron was _just_ a machine.

And was she just a machine? John had silently berated himself for saying that to Cameron and he wondered how much it affected her. He was constantly debating the issue in his own mind, and there had been several near-intimate moments that the two had shared which John could just have written off as the normal hormonal response of a 16-year old boy. But didn't his future self re-program her? What was her agenda? What is his future self's agenda?

Cameron had said that she loved John, but that might have been a machine's desperate attempt to save itself. She was pinned, helpless and about to have her chip extracted in that instance.

_How can a machine love? How can a machine be desperate?_ John's mind was in knots, but if there was one thing he did understand, it was loyalty.

Apart from the major exception when her chip had been compromised, Cameron's loyalty was unquestioned. There were many instances when John had gone out on a limb _for her_, even though Derek and Sarah both advised against it. The ultimate test of his loyalty was re-activating her after the failed attempt to murder him. Until now.

_I'm sorry I doubted you_, John had told Cameron apologetically after verifying the true cause of Riley's death. How could he not trust what was, essentially, an extension of himself?

Since her arrival, they had done everything together, from mundane everyday tasks to battling the assorted forces of Skynet. She was definitely more than a bodyguard. Indeed, Cameron was John's best friend. And she had saved his life, so now it was time to return the favor, to go out on a limb for her. Again.

However, John's opinion was not shared by his mother. Sarah wasn't joining them.

So this was it.

Recently, Sarah had come to the bitter realization that she would soon be separated from her son. She knew it at the lighthouse, but luck had interceded there, as the cancer scare was proven false. In jail, she was expecting the worst, either from Skynet or whatever hell the authorities could conjure up. She had even sent a message for John to leave her, but he rescued her instead.

Now it was time to let go. He had grown so much in the last year, especailly since the Cromartie incident in Mexico. He had figured out who Riley was, had ordered the death of Jessie, and more importantly, Derek had followed those orders. Although foolhardy, he had organized and executed her rescue, without too much risk to himself. Overall, she saw his slow acceptance of a destiny as humankind's future leader.

And he now had the ultimate protector—a shape-shifting cyborg whose mission clearly included the safety and security of her son. Did she trust Weaver? Trust is earned, Sarah thought, but Weaver could have let them all die in the penthouse, so the terminatrix passed with flying colors there.

Adding it all up, Sarah had made her decision: he was ready.

Even still, he couldn't believe she was backing out.

"Mom?" John said, surprised by her move.

"I'll stop it," she said, reassuringly, although how exactly she was to accomplish that was another matter.

The countdown reached zero, and, after a brilliant flash, they were gone. The table, chair, keyboard and switch blade had all vanished as well. John Henry's umbilical cord was severed at the approximate edge of the bubble.

While traveling in time, the senses are overwhelmed by an assortment of stimuli, and although it was the second time he had experienced it, John wasn't sure he would ever grow used to it.

The bombardment included a blinding light, a mixture of searing heat and numbing cold, a simultaneous sensation of needles pricking his skin and individual hairs being plucked from his body, and finally a release that John could only compare to the sudden relief when re-surfacing while swimming under water. In any event, John found his skin crawling and spine tingling, and yet it was all over in a millisecond.

Then the reality sets in. First, the embarassing realization that he was as naked as the day he was born. But more importantly, he thought, _where am I_? _When_ am I?

John looked to his right to see Weaver in approximately the same predicament, probably asking the similar questions to herself.

His mother's last words to him—_I'll stop it_—were still fresh in his thoughts. "It" was a reference to Judgment Day, the day the machines declared war on humankind. Three billion men, women and children would be killed world-wide in the opening salvos, as the major nuclear powers responded to attack. The rest would be hunted down by the machines in the post-apocalyptic ruins.

The Connors thought they had prevented J-Day when they had destroyed Cyberdyne in 1997, but more terminators began coming after them only two years later. Cameron later informed them that J-Day was not prevented, only delayed. The new date: April 21, 2011.

All of this was running through John's mind as he looked around, trying to gauge where they were, and when. They were in what appeared to be a basement or a shelter of some kind, but the concrete walls were blown out here and there, with twisted rebar visible everywhere, either from explosions or some sort of fire fight. There were beds, cots, propane tanks, tables, chairs, pots and pans scattered about. The lighting was a crude arrangement of light bulbs strung together at uneven points on the ceiling. It smelled musty and dank. Definitely a make-shift arrangement, John thought distantly.

And, of course, around them was the circular pattern of fire and an indentation in the floor from the time-displacement much he remembered from the first time through. But something was missing.

"Where's Cameron?" he asked Weaver. "Where's her body?"

"It doesn't come through," Weaver answered matter-of-factly, as if she expected the question.

John nodded an acknowlegement, but didn't really understand the oddities of time travel. He looked around again at the tattered existence in evidence and began leaning toward the fact that they had traveled forward in time, post Judgment Day. They were in a resistance bunker, he concluded.

He turned to ask Weaver about it, but was startled by her suddenly clothed exterior. She was not wearing the white dress and heels from their departure from Zeira, but instead had on some sort of leather jacket with orange pants and leather boots. Of course, she wasn't really "wearing" anything, just appeared to be. In any event, he again became aware of his own plight, made all the more desperate by the approach of of yelling voices and barking dogs.

He scrambled to a nearby bed, found a coat, quickly slipped it on, and crouched in an attempt to avoid detection by the search parties. And it was none too soon, as flashlight beams panned where he had been standing only seconds before. A team of armed men, led by a German Shepherd, quickly scanned the corridor outside the room where John and Weaver were, but they clearly had a more distant target in mind and were gone more rapidly than they had arrived.

John stood up, re-joined Weaver, and the two scampered out of the room down the corridor in the opposite direction of the search party. John had advanced maybe 10 meters when he was stopped dead in his tracks by soldier with a rifle which looked to be bigger than he was.

"Got one! Got one!" the soldier yelled to unseen parties behind him.

"One what?" John answered, confused. But he looked back and around and saw that Weaver was no longer with him. Turning back to the soldier, he said, "What? Please, I'm not metal…"

"Don't' move!" the soldier ordered, leveling his rifle at John's head.

"Please, I swear, I haven't got anything!" John pleaded. It was literally true, except for the jacket. John's mind darted for answers again—how was he to explain his sudden arrival? "I'm human!" he blurted.

"'Cause I will blast you!" the soldier replied, seemingly immune to John's pathetic explanations.

"Stand down!" a familiar voice ordered from behind the soldier, who hesitantly lowered his weapon.

From the shadows emerged the speaker. It was Derek Reese.

He advanced between the soldier and John to examine their quary.

"Look in his eyes," Derek said, like a teacher to his student. "He's got about as much metal in it as you do."

_Derek! Yes! He's alive! _John beamed—eyes wide, huge smile—at Derek, his uncle, who had been killed just days ago in the Skynet attack on the Weaver household. Of course, that fate still loomed for Derek—it was in John's past, but his uncle's future. _If time travel was anything, it was confusing._

But having his uncle back in his life was an unexpected twist that John should have anticipated, but didn't. Good old Derek. He looked the same—the perpetual 2-day growth of beard, the tattered, olive-green hunting coat, the knowing eyes. He was a natural leader, the kind of person others are instinctively drawn to and respect. John had grown to know and love him in the short time they spent together.

"Derek!" John said, unable to control himself. He wanted to hug him.

"Yeah?" Derek answered flatly, with considerably less enthusiasm.

John's heart sank. Derek didn't know him. _Of course, why would he? Good god, time travel certainly keeps you guessing._

"John," he answered, meekly. "John Connor…"

"I know a lot people, kid," Derek replied, shaking his head. "Don't know you."

He then turned to the others and asked, almost sarcastically, "Anybody heard the name 'John Connor?'" They confirmed Derek's ignornace—no one knew the moniker.

For a moment, John thought he was joking. No, they were deadly serious. _But how can that be?_

Again, John's head was spinning. All at once he thought: Who's leading the resistance? Will I meet myself? No, future me, as he and Cameron had often referred to his 2027 self, _is_ me. Of course! Then where is….

Before he could conjure the thought, Derek addressed him again.

"Hmm, well you know what? I think you're gonna be famous," Derek said, grinning and glancing over John's shoulder. "My brother's back and you're wearing his coat."

John turned around before Derek had finished his sentence. If his head was spinning before, it was now ready to explode. Walking toward him was Kyle Reese, his father.

John had never met Kyle, who died before John was born, protecting Sarah from the first terminator all those years ago. John's destiny was always two-fold: lead humankind to victory against the machines and send Kyle Reese back to 1984. The two missions were intimately intertwined.

It was like looking into a mirror, John thought. Kyle was about the same height and build as John, but Kyle's hair was a little lighter than his, and his father was trying to grow a beard, but the patchy peach-fuzz wasn't fooling anyone. _Not much older than me, if at all._

"_Every time I look at you, I see him_," older Derek had told John when he first revealed that he knew Kyle to be John's father, that fateful day in the park. John had to agree with him on that point.

But it was surprising nonetheless, and John was speechless, awestruck. He wasn't expecting to meet his father this soon. He knew he would have to some day, at least to prepare him to defend his mother, but he wasn't ready _now_. So he just stood and exchanged a dumbfounded look with his father.

Then a figure emerged from behind Kyle that caught John's attention. As the figure leaned down to pet a German Shepherd, John suddenly realized it was….

_Cameron! How? Did they find John Henry? Did they figure out how to repair her?_ Now his amazement and joy was unavoidable, and he did all he could to prevent his jaw from hitting the floor. He wanted to call to her, knowing she could easily fill in the missing pieces, but something was wrong, something about her was off.

_Shouldn't she know of his arrival? And aren't the dogs trained to detect terminators? _Then she looked up and matched his stare and he could see the confusion in her eyes and expression as well. She wasn't Cameron. She wasn't even a cyborg. She was a dead ringer for John's old cyber-companion, but she was _human._

For John, the world suddenly came crashing down on him. A thousand questions came to mind—_How can I explain my presence? What year is it? Where is Weaver? Where can I find some clothes? Am I to take command here? Is my mother still alive? Will I ever see her again? Who is the beautiful Cameron look-alike? _

But no answers would be forthcoming, at least not right away. For now, for the first time in his life, he was truly alone.


	2. The Tale

For John Connor, life had been filled with some surreal days. In fact, his resume read like some sort of action film actor's. But it was all real, a point driven home by all the death he had witnessed lately, especially those he had cared deeply for.

He had been hunted by and destroyed cyborgs. He had worked with cyborgs. He had been hunted by and killed humans. He had blown up buildings and particpated in car chases. And he had traveled in time. Twice. All before his seventeenth birthday.

But this day took the prize, as he was first introduced to Weaver, who had disappeared, then Derek and Kyle, and finally, the mystery girl. All in the span of 10 minutes.

Now, all eyes were on John. He was so overwhelmed, all he could think to do was to fold his arms and crouch. He exchanged questioning glances with the three of them. Words would come to his lips, but he couldn't find the breath to speak.

Derek finally broke the silence.

"All right, kid," he barked. "Who are you? Where did you come from? What are you doing here?"

John hesitated, but only for an instant. _They won't believe me if I tell them the truth_, His mother had told him when they saved Derek from the gunshot wound, _"Derek can't know you're Kyle's son. You never trusted anyone enough to tell them about Kyle!"_

But John always believed in telling the truth. It helped secure trust, something in short supply at the moment. He settled on a compromise between his mother's advice and his intuition.

"The machines left me here," John answered, looking his questioner right in the eye, hoping Derek wouldn't pick up on the half-truth. To Derek, the machines were the enemy—Skynet and the terminators. To John, there were two camps of machines—one enemy, one ally.

"Why?" Derek pressed. "Where were you being held?"

"Century City," John answered, quickly, briefly locking eyes with the mystery girl as he spoke. He remembered when Cameron had told him all the information she had on Kyle, and Century City was some sort of labor camp that he and Kyle had escaped from. Or _will_ escape from.

"They were interrogating me," he continued. "They drugged me, took all of my clothes and left me here. I don't…."

"If the machines had you," Derek replied, accusingly, as he twisted John's left forearm into view, "Why didn't they mark you?" He was referring to the UPC-like code prisoners of Skynet typically get branded with. Good old Derek. He remembered how little he trusted Cameron too.

"I don't know," John said. "Maybe they didn't think I was a threat."

"No one's a threat to them," Kyle answered dryly. _If only he knew_. "Just a number."

"What did they press you on," Derek continued.

"How many of us there are, where we are," John answered, shrugging his shoulders. It was all fictitious, but he tried to think what he would ask a captured enemy soldier. "What type of weapons we had."

Derek glared at him and glanced around at the others. "So what did you tell them?"

"I told them nothing," John answered, stone faced, matching Derek's glare. He was careful to look him in the eye while he answered. "Because I only met you today."

"You seemed to recognize me," Derek countered. _He was good_. _No detail was too small._

"You definitely resemble my uncle," John replied. _Just a little_. It was the first truthful thing he had uttered. "But I was wrong, obviously."

"Your uncle was named Derek too?" Derek said, unconvinced.

"Small world," John answered.

"Too small," Derek corrected. John had to get him off this line of questioning.

"I was alone, searching for survivors. Skynet destoyed our camp. My family's dead…" John said, his voice trailing off. He held his stare with Derek for a second and then bowed his head, as if in reverence of the dead. He was hoping they would buy the tale, so he sadly recalled recent events to conjure up some emotion. In particular, he lamented the deaths of Riley Dawson, Charley Dixon and older Derek, three that really meant a lot to him.

"I think I'm the only one that escaped," John said, as a tear rolled down his cheek.

"Where was your camp?" Kyle interrupted.

"Santa Clarita," John said, wiping the tear away, sniffling through the heartache. They had resided in Santa Clarita since the Sarkissian incident, so he a least knew that area a little. He hoped it had been far enough from the worst of the nuclear devastation, far enough to believe someone had survived. He also remembered the park where Derek had taken him on his birthday last year, in North Hollywood. Presumably, the Reeses resided there.

"We don't know anyone from Santa Clarita," Derek replied, right back into it. It was classic good cop, bad cop.

"Well, you do now," John replied.

"How long were you there," Kyle asked.

"For a few years," John started, "We used to live in New Mexico, but moved here a few years…."

"He means Century City, dumb ass," Derek said. "How long did Skynet hold you?"

"I don't know," John said, growing weary of his uncle's scrutiny. But he suddenly saw a loophole. "What day is it?"

"It's Wednesday," Kyle said softly. "April 21st."

"April 21st," John repeated, contemplating the meaning of the date. John looked at Kyle as a doubtful student would an omniscient professor.

"Today's the tenth anniversary of the war," Kyle responded somberly.

"Judgment Day," John added, more to himself than to anyone. _Tenth anniversary?_ John calculated it was the year 2021, unless J-Day had changed, and there was no reason to think it had.

"Judgment Day?" Derek chided. "You come up with that by yourself, kid?"

"No," John answered. "I think I heard my mother use it first." Another truth.

"So how long?" Derek came back.

"Not long," John managed. "We were attacked on Sunday night."

"Well, I think that's quite enough, Derek, don't you?" Kyle said. "I'm hungry, and, more importantly, cold," Kyle added, eyeing the jacket that John had absconded.

With the cue from his brother, Derek finally eased up on his interrogation of John, at least temporarily. It was long enough for everyone to catch their breath. And for John to ask Kyle for some actual clothes.

Kyle led him to a small room loaded with various items—canned food, water, batteries, assorted tools, medical supplies, clothes and a hundred other things you could associate with human existence. Scavenging in the post apocalyptic nightmare would virtually have to be a daily task, John thought morbidly.

"Don't worry so much about Derek," Kyle said reassuredly. "He's our leader and he takes his role seriously. He's worried about the group's safety, so he doesn't trust anybody he doesn't know."

"I know the type," John said. _I know the type all too well_. John then slipped on some jeans, a white T-shirt, and a gray hoodie. The accoutrements were a little baggy, but he wasn't about to complain.

"Trust isn't handed out, it's earned," John added, handing the coat back to Kyle. Offering his hand, he added, "I'm John Connor."

Kyle wasn't sure what it was, but the newcomer had a certain quality about him. His eyes had a strength about them and his words carried passion and conviction. Was he ready to trust him? _Give it some time_.

Kyle took John's hand firmly. "Kyle Reese. Pleased to meet you, John."

Kyle had no idea and couldn't possibly know that John had yearned all of his life to have this conversation. Another surreal moment for John.

John used the pause in their conversation to try on some black sneakers. Again, a little big, but better than the opposite.

John and Kyle left the supply room to join the others in the meeting room where John had been "captured." Derek was talking to the balance of the group.

"But he called you by name," said one. It was the same one that had leveled the gun at John's head. It wasn't until now that John realized that the "soldier" was clearly younger than John, an Asian, barely in his teens, if at all, probably scared out of his wits.

"Kin, I've never seen him before in my life," Derek said, shrugging his shoulders. He glanced back over his shoulders to see John and Kyle returning.

"All right, listen up," Derek said, in a markedly more authoritative voice. "It will be dark in two hours, and now we have another mouth to feed." With that prompt, the group as one threw an accusing glare at John.

_Thanks a lot, Uncle Derek._

"Let's have the same scavenging group as yesterday, plus one," Derek barked. "That means you, John Connor. It's time for you to earn your keep—you're going too."

"You can impress me by not getting yourself or anyone else killed," Derek added dryly, as he sat on one a chair and began unlacing his boot. "And by finding me some chocolate."

John nodded grimly and moved over toward the entrance of the room, following Kin's gesture. Each of the members of the scavenging party was hoisting a backpack over his or her shoulders, presumably to carry back the supplies they found.

Kyle was about to join them when Derek stopped his brother short and gently pulled on his suspenders until Kyle's ear was level with his mouth.

"Keep an eye on him," Derek warned. "Skynet may be tracking."

"No worries," Kyle said, as he cocked his Beretta and joined the others.


	3. First Mission

They were only three levels down, but returning to the surface was one of the more harrowing experiences John could remember. The staircase's condition grew gradually worse as they went up. From sub-level three to sub-level two, it was dimly lit, but at least intact, save for the railing on the second half. From two to one, lighting had to be provided by flashlights of the scavenging team, there were gaps in the concrete and no railing to be seen, but anyone with a little athletic ability should have been able to leap over the holes without a problem.

But the journey from sub-level one to the surface was not for the faint of heart. The first half appeared intact, but caution was needed on the loose rubble. It's stability was definitely a question mark. Kin went first, scaling the staircase like an expert gymnast, bouncing back and forth over the gaps until he reached the top.

"Ally, you're next," Kyle said to the mystery girl.

She briefly exchanged glances with John before ascending the stairs almost as deftly as Kin. At the summit, Ally glowered at John, almost daring him to try. But it wasn't quite his turn.

Trudy, an African-American girl about the same age as Kin, was next, followed by a young Hispanic boy, Pablo, who couldn't have been more than 7 or 8-years-old. They mimicked Kin's approach, more or less, but Kin was at the top for a reason: he gave the others the extra force they needed to clear that last hole. Now, John was up.

"Don't put too much weight on any of your steps," Kyle said to John. "Move fast, like they did, and don't stop, or else it will give way. And let Kin pull you up at the top."

John nodded and took a deep breath. He wondered if there was a better way out of the complex.

Then he was off. John was never good at sports, but hoped that the paramilitary training he'd received in the jungles of Central America would pay off. Bouncing rapidly off the tips of his toes, like he had seen the others do, John focused on his feet. This is easy, he thought, and he had nearly reached the top, when his right foot slipped and he fell flat on the staircase, just two steps from the top.

John waited a heartbeat, expecting the whole assembly to come crashing down, but all was still.

"Don't just sit there!" Kyle yelled from below. "Everbody grab him and pull him up!" Within another heartbeat, four hands grabbed him where ever they could find leverage—his hoodie, his shoulder, his neck, even his hair—and helped him to the ledge before the staircase could give way. But John did feel it beginning to tremble.

"Thanks," he said to no one in particular. He did, however, manage to lock eyes with Ally. She had one hand on either side of his head and had provided most of the boost up, at least as far as John could tell. Maybe her fingernails being imbedded in his neck clued him in as well.

She quickly disengaged from the impromptu embrace and scoffed at him. "You need to be quicker!" she said.

"I'll try to remember that," John said, entranced by her brown eyes that seemed to go on forever. _She even sounds like Cameron._ _Or did Cameron sound like her?_

"Here I come," said Kyle.

John twisted himself back up and turned to offer assistance to his father, but it was completely unnecessary. Kyle flew up the stairs, faster than any of the others and was next to them in a heartbeat.

"C'mon!" he urged. "Keep it moving. It will be dark soon."

"Isn't it better to go at night?" John asked.

"We switch it around, randomly," Kyle answered. "We have to keep them guessing."

The last leg of the stairwell was about as bad as the previous one, but the group advanced up without incident. The stairs going further up the building were completely blocked by fallen concrete and rebar. The group scurried out of the stairwell through a small hole in the wall and advanced into what appeared to be the lobby.

It suddenly occurred to John that the dilapitated stairwell was perfect cover against any prowling machines. Although terminators could probably scale it or merely jump down, getting back up was another issue. And they would probably surmise that humans would be too fragile, lacked the coordination to pull it off, or didn't have the patience to try.

Additionally, John reasoned that there were probably many different routes in and out of the complex. He did not, however, want to ask about their existence and raise the group's suspicions again.

On the main level of the building, or what remained of it, the remnants of the day shone through giant gaps in the edifice. John saw some shattered paintings and crushed furniture and recognized them from the lobby of the Zeira bulding. _So time displacement didn't necessarily equate to physical displacement._ He and Weaver stayed in the same place, they just jumped ahead 12 years.

When they finally escaped the shattered building, John got his first good look at Los Angeles, post apocalypse. He knew it would be bad, but he was still shocked.

A dark cloud lingered over parts of the broken city, not quite smog and not not quite a rain cloud. It was possibly failout-laiden, but in any event, it wasn't precipitating. Where great skyscrapers once stood, now there were just mangled piles of concrete, glass and steel. The piles were indiscriminate, sometimes obscuring streets and intersections, sometimes contained within the boundaries of roads and sidewalks, and sometimes overlapped with the debris of other buildings.

John knew that Zeira was in West Hollywood, a good 15 kilometers from downtown, so this part of the sprawling city was clearly spared of complete annihilation, but not of the highly destructive blast wave, or waves. Sign posts, traffic signals, lighting standards, parking meters, mailboxes and vehicles by the thousands all merged together in the streets to form a sort of a macabre sculpture some sadist might have named "The Final Rush Hour."

Few structures were intact—a small storefront here, a tiny restaurant there—but even they had smashed out windows and had been looted of anything valuable years ago. There were no trees, bushes or grass, at least none that John could see.

A cold wind whipped into John's face, carrying the the fine dust of the apocalypse into his lungs for the first time. He stopped to cough and became suddenly aware that he had been running while surveying the damage.

"Keep moving," Kyle said, bumping into him from the rear. "What? Haven't you seen Los Angeles before?"

_Actually, no. Not like this_.

Kyle and Kin zig-zagged the group through many ruins, occasionally retrograding across their original path, occasionally running straight ahead or across. John saw what they were doing. Their journey was completely unpredictable and thus, untraceable, by man or, especially, by machine.

John tried to pick out something peculiar—a red brick, a green sign, shattered glass, anything—but they were moving too fast. To him, each ruin was indintinguishable from the next, so he also had no way of getting back "home" should the guides become disabled.

Suddenly, Kin stopped and signaled to the rest to do the same. Then, another hand gesture, one John didn't recognize.

"Cover!" Kyle whispered from behind John, sensing that the newcomer wouldn't know the signals.

John did the best he could, cowering under the shattered wreck of a table or booth in the remnants of a destroyed restaurant. The others seemed to blend in with the wreckage as if they had done it hundreds of times.

For a moment, all was still. But then, everything began to rumble. The ground was shaking so violiently that John thought something was actually burrowing from under ground. He looked all around, trying to determine its source, finally noticing Kyle's signal to remain still, which he begrudgingly acknowlegded.

Finally, the source was revealed. Squinting through a small hole in the booth's seat, John tried to take in as much as he could. He couldn't see them until they passed the group, so his first visual was from behind, but it was still quite a sight.

Three behemoth tanks, in a delta formation, were advancing down the street, in dominance of all they purviewed. The tanks were not the classic armored vehicles that had served in the various armies across the world for the past century; rather, they were two-story tall lumbering hulks, with cameras and guns of varrying calibre jutting out from multiple orifices. They were not so much a means to protect a crew across heavily defended terrain, but more a gun and observation platform.

Directly behind the tanks, in twin columns, advanced a squad of no less than 20 endoskeletons, rifles in each arm, coltan bodies gleaming, even in the fading daylight. This was not a crew to be messed with, John thought. They were clearly headed for battle, a battle, some day, John would look to engage them in. But not today.

He watched as long as he could, but after five minutes or so the battle group was out of sight without incident. Another couple of minutes passed before John was tapped on the shoulder-rather violently, he thought.

"We're going," Ally said mockingly in response to John's disdainful look.

"Pretty strong," John whispered to himself, as he scrambled out from his hiding place to follow. "But definitely not Cameron."

The group continued their haphazard advance across the ruins for another 15 minutes, until finally stopping near a pile of twisted steel, rebar and concrete that was considerably lower than those adjacent to it. There was also a heavier quantity of mangled vehicles in the vicinity.

This is distnguishable, John thought, and it suddenly occurred to him that they were in a parking lot, probably for a supermarket or plaza of some kind. One problem, though—there didn't seem to be much cover.

Crouching in the center of the scavenging team with his back to the market's ruins, Kyle looked to either side, getting hand signals from Kin first, and then Ally, both of whom had fanned out to the edges of the market. All was clear.

"All right, uncover it," Kyle said to the younger two. "John, help Pablo and Trudy."

John quickly moved over to where the other two were working. They were moving chunks of debris, mostly large and small slabs of concrete, blacktop, tile, wood, shelving and various other unrecognizable pieces of junk off a cleverly disguised double metal doorway, which was flush with the lot. Some sort of pre-war utility serviceway, John conjectjured.

John and Trudy each pulled one of the doors open, revealing a concrete stairway. Pablo scampered down the stairs before John had even finished opening his door.

"Hey!" John yelled, belatedly, looking at Kyle.

"Keep your voice down," Kyle said to John, reprovingly. "It's all right, we've been here before. He knows what he's doing. You four, get what you can. You have five minutes."

Ally glowered in disapproval at John before hurrying down the stairs to join Pablo. Trudy went next, leaving John standing alone at the top of the stairs, somewhat bewildered.

"I'm sorry," he said, to no one in particular.

"John, take these too," Kyle said, handing John the backpacks he and Kin had been wearing. "We'll stand guard."

"The future leader of mankind is off to big start," John mockingly mumbled to himself as he lumbered down the stairs.

John noted the fading Cold War fallout shelter signs as he reached the bottom. And whoever designed the bunker, knew what they were doing.

John decided to take the dime tour. Shining his flashlight around, he discovered it was divided into four rooms—one each for sleeping/rest, community/kitchen, utility/bath and storage. There was a large gasoline-driven generator, apparently made from an old tractor-trailer engine and vents to the surface. Someone even thought to add a sump to keep water from flooding, although it was apparent it had never been used.

Naturally, the storage room was the largest. It wasn't really a room per se, as the other rooms were attached to it. It had dozens of shelves containing supplies ranging from canned goods and dried foods to other essentials like soap, batteries, bandages, matches, candles and assorted clothing. And there was hundreds of bottles of water, of course.

"What are you, the tour guide?" Ally snapped at him, irritated. "Start packing!"

"What should I pack?" John asked.

"Just load as much water as you can into two of those knapsacks," she answered.

John did as he was told and had each stuffed with bottles within a couple of minutes. No one was talking; they were all feverishly occupied with their tasks, so John decided he would take the water up, one knapsack in each hand.

One heartbeat later, John realized that water is heavy. Really heavy. He had roughy 20 2-liter bottles in each bag, probably in the neighborhood of 75 kilograms per bag. In other words, more than one trip would be needed.

John turned to see that others had stopped to monitor his progress. Pablo, in particular, was snickering at John's dilemma.

"Looks like I don't know my own strength," John announced, nervously chuckling.

"Apparently so," said Ally. But she wasn't laughing.

John finished hoisting the bag over his shoulders, turned and slowly marched up the stairs. It was more of a strain than he would have liked.

Once to the top, Kin quickly helped John take the backpack off.

"What's taking so long?" Kyle asked. "C'mon, we have to be quick."

John sensed the urgency in his father's voice, so without comment, he whirled and ran back down the stairs. The others had finished their packing and were already moving single file back to the surface.

"We're going too slow," John announced.

"No, you are," Ally corrected.

John couldn't argue with her on that point. He watched them advance up as he lifted up the last knapsack and moved to follow.

"Tough crowd," he mumbled to himself. Before leaving the store room, John had one more mission to perform. Looking around, he quickly found what he was looking for: candy. Reees's peanut butter cups, of course. John smiled and grabbed the treasure.

Once back at street level, the group sealed the shelter and quickly obscurred the entrance with the debris they had just removed. John had to agreee that the camouflage was effective.

The six of them scampered off, more-or-less in the reverse direction of their approach. They were using the same zig-zagging as before, only now their movements were more deliberate because of their cargo. Fortunately, daylight was diminishing rapidly, so they should be harder to spot.

At least in theory.

Kin was still on point when he suddenly signaled for a halt. This time, the reason was abundantly clear as an aircraft immediately swooped down and hovered within five meters of their position, searchlights claiming each of Kyle's team in the process.

"HK!" Kyle screamed, trying unsuccessfully to duck away from the searchlights as he squated against a wall. John recognized the HK as a larger, more menacing looking version of the hover-craft that had crashed into Weaver's penthouse.

Kyle glanced down the street and saw two endoskeletons emerge from the debris about a block away, rifles primed, marching straight for his group. Looking back the opposite way, he saw virtually a mirror image. It was an ambush and they had walked right into it.

The group was outmanuevered and outgunned. There was no choice.

"Lay down your weapons," Kyle ordered the group. "And put up your arms. It's our only chance."

But Kin would hear none of it. Impulsively, he dove behind a blown out wall to a corner store and started firing his pulse rifle at the HK.

"Kin, no!" Kyle yelled.

But it was all in vain. The HK absorbed the shots and merely manuvered around to the exposed side of the wall. From there, it unloaded a series of lasers and automatic weapons at the soldier's position. Kin never had a chance.

Pablo ran into Trudy's arms and the two cowered in fear as the terminators advanced, hoping to avoid Kin's fate. Ally crouched down as a sprinter would before the start of a race, but was frozen in place by what she just witnessed. Kyle's demeanor was more of resignation than fear, as he felt he had failed his team.

In spite of his own apprehension, John tried to take a more studious approach as the machines approached. The terminators were different, somehow, John noted, apparently a primitive version of the T-888s or even the T-101 that he had already seen.

He remembered studying the "Vic" endoskeleton before Cameron incinerated it and was amazed at the machine world's attempt to imitate the human body. There were servos, pulleys, hydraulics and many other mechanisms that John didn't recognize, all working together to emulate human movement and behavior.

Some, like Cameron, were exceptional in their deception. Those leveling their guns at him currently, left a lot to be desired.

Having no skin was obviously a problem, but beyond that, their movement was far more rigid than the terminators he had seen, more deliberate, more robotic. The skull was definitely more Neanderthal than human, with large ridges above and below the eyes, probably serving as armor for the optics. Of course, their expressions never wavered either—a permanent false grin. John knew these things would have to improve or their role as infiltrators would never be fulfilled.

All in all, John decided it was early in terminator evolution. None of that was going to help them now, however.

As the squads of terminators merged, the HK finally departed, leaving an eerie silence and stillness.

Finally, one of the terminators spoke.

"You are now prisoners," it said a metallic, synthesized voice. "Do not speak, resist or run or you will be shot."

The voice was somehow more aggravating than one of those drive-through windows at a fast food restaurant, John thought. Worse still, its "mouth" did not open when it spoke. If it had a puppet sitting on its lap, the terminator would make the perfect ventriliquist. _Yet more things for the machines to work on._

"Place all your weapons here," the machine said, gesturing next to its leg. The group, although terrified, complied with the order, each placing a handgun at the indicated spot. Kyle was last, surrendering his pulse rifle and three pistols, including his prized Beretta.

The terminator looked at John, expecting him to do the same.

"I don't have any," John said shrugging. He had only now realized that he was the lone unarmed team member. _Trust is earned_.

But the machines didn't trust anyone. Another approached John and gave what he estimated was the most uncomfortable groping a person could possibly receive.

"No weapons," the machine announced, shoving John towards the others.

"We will proceed south-west on Santa Monica Boulevard to the internment camp," the machine's "leader" added, gesturing with its rifle laiden right arm. "Move."

Still carrying their knapsacks, the machines marched the group silently down the road. They were in single file with John leading, followed by Pablo, Trudy, Ally and Kyle. The three in the middle had their heads down, walking somberly, but John and Kyle stayed observant, looking for any chance to escape.

The machines made one mistake, John thought. Identifying the road allowed John to get his bearings. Sure enough, Santa Monica Boulevard led straight to the camp.

The journey was not terribly long, perhaps 10 or 15 minutes. John had suspected where they were headed, but his idea was confirmed by a faded and half-mangled sign post indicating their imminent arrival at a mall.

"Century City," John wispered to himself. Was it irony or fate that took him to this camp?


	4. Century City

Century City was a complex of shopping malls and restaurants that catered to the opulent Beverley Hills residents before the war. It was certainly strange to see it as a detainment center, John thought.

As far as John could tell, the complex was surrounded by a fence which was at least six or seven meters high. It was topped off by a nasty snarl of concertina wire. Without a pole vault and an Olympic medal, he estimated the chances of escaping that way were negligible at best.

Guard towers, 20 meters off the ground were erected at regular intervals about the perimeter, each occupied by a terminator or some machine with a menacing automatic weapon at the ready. Where shops, restaurants, kiosks and newsstands once blissfully ruled, there were now only gray, one-story ramshackle longhouses.

In the distance, John could see a somewhat larger building with figures—either man or machine, he couldn't tell at this range—milling all about it. Ominously, a large smokestack emanated from the building's center. From it, bellowed a baleful column of black smoke.

John had only one thing to compare this hell to: the pictures he had seen from the Holocaust. Nazi concentration camps like Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Mauthausen or Treblinka all resembled what he was now looking at. Most had hoped this scourge would never return, but what man had abolished, the machines had re-created.

John exchanged a knowing glance with Kyle. The only two routes out of here were escape or death. And the former, while infinitely more preferable, appeared much more difficult to accomplish.

The terminators herded the group toward the camp's entrance, where other prisoners were being "checked-in." Kyle's team would be added to this group, consisting of 15 to 20 more individuals.

"Remove all of your belongings except clothing," the terminator "clerk" ordered. "Place them on that conveyer."

The conveyer led back into the nearest longhouse. Presumably, the supplies would be separated there and eventually rationed out to the prisoners.

As they were relinquishing their booty, four large dump trucks approached the camp. Two terminators swung the gates open and the trucks proceeded to the quad in between the four nearest longhouses. That they barely missed running over two of the new internees was of no interest to the drivers.

The trucks' cargo was quickly revealed, as the drivers, yet more terminators, exited the cabs, in unison, of course, and operated the vehicles' payload hydraulics. Hundreds of corpses—mostly human, but some animal mixed in—spilled into the courtyard.

Most turned away from the revolting sight, but for John, this was a moment of truth. He never felt more resolved to win this war.

A second conveyer suddenly emerged from the building with the smokestack. It was at least 100 meters long, supported by wheels on legs every 10 meters or so and had a belt that automatically moved the objects on it to their destination. It stopped within a couple of meters of the corpses.

Terminators began pushing the new arrivals toward the grievous pile. Apparently, this was some sort initiation right.

"Begin loading the bodies onto the conveyer," one of them said.

The prisoners hesitated, uncertain, so the same terminator fired its automatic weapon upward.

"Now!" it barked.

With that warning, the crowd surged forward and set about the grim task. There were men and women, young and old, multiple ethnicities and even some infants among the dead. Several dogs and cats in addition to a horse were included in the carnage.

The smell was beyond repugnant and all of the prisoners had to vomit as a result. Some did so immediately, while others held out as long as they could before being overcome. The terminators had anticpated this so they had Pablo and a few other young prisoners handing out water bottles to help them compensate.

While John was rinsing out his mouth, he paused to think of the reasoning behind this harsh task. _Surely, this wasn't the most efficient way to dispose of the bodies. Why not drive the truck into the building and dispose of them there?_

Then it dawned on him that Skynet was waging a total war against humanity, bringing all weapons to bear against their enemy, including psychological.

"They gotta rub our face in the mud, too!" John whispered, angrily. It made him even more determined.

Suddenly, two figures bolted from the loading area, running toward the nearest fence. John wasn't sure, but they appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent. One was cut down immediately by unrelenting machine gun rounds from the closest tower. The other hesitated, seeing his partner cut down, but then continued, either knowing he couldn't help or that the delay could somehow assist him.

He reached the barricade in full stride, leaping about one meter up and clasping the metal enclosure with both hands. By doing so, he closed the circuit and electrocuted himself in a spectacular, but horrific, fireworks display.

All of the lights in the camp flickered as the fence burned the man almost beyond recognition. An approaching terminator severed his hold on the mesh by ruthlessly shooting at his wrists. The man, still on fire, fell off the fence, although what remained of his hands still clutched his objective in futility.

With the fence's circuit no longer closed, the lights stopped their oscillation.

"You're wasting time and effort," a terminator announced. "There is no escape."

It was another demonstration of the machines' superiority. Cold and calculating, Skynet mercilessly substantiated that point with two brutal executions. Even still, John was determined to prove them wrong.

"Load those bodies too," the terminator ordered.

Two prisoners immediately scrambled over to retrieve the man who had been gunned down. John called Pablo over for some of the water he was distributing.

He took two of the bottles and began walking over to the electocuted man, who was still burning.

"Kyle," John yelled. "Give me a hand."

Kyle ran over and helped John extinguish the body. The two rolled him on the ground as well, but the flames weren't doused easily. In any event, despite the grusomeness of the task, John needed the distraction to talk to Kyle.

"We gotta get out of here," John said, sotto voce.

"Obviously," Kyle retorted, mimicking the other's tone. "What do you have in mind?"

"Nothing specific," John answered. "But they have an awful amount of juice pumped into that fence. We need to use that as a weapon."

John lifted the corpse by its arms, while Kyle took the feet, and they carried it back to the conveyer.

"Terriffic," Kyle said, "But we need to stay clear. How do we do that?"

They threw the corpse on the conveyer.

"I dunno," John said. "I'm working on that."


	5. Fortune Favors the Bold

_Author's note: Thanks for the reviews. As for Allison's age, I had to make a choice between Mrs. Young answering the phone in "Allison from Palmdale" and Cameron's files on Kyle Reese from "Dungeons and Dragons." Kyle and John escaped from Century City in 2021. My intent was for Allison to be 17 or 18, so I went with Cameron's files._

The rest of the cleanup process proceeded without incident, save for the trouble the prisoners had loading the horse onto the conveyer. Had events not been so tragic, the eight men finally needed to hoist up the poor animal would have made the Three Stooges proud.

The prisoners were then paraded into the center buidling by the terminators. Some expressed fears that they were about to join the dead, but John wasn't so sure.

Once inside, it was clear that earlier arrivals were also toiling for the machines, so death was not immediate, at least not for all. The conveyer led to an enormous metal bin, where detainees were working feverishly to prevent overfilling, spillage and jams.

While some worked to ensure that the bodies passed smoothly to the incinerator, others cleaned the conveyer, floor and bin of blood and entrails. They were also insightful and quick enough to insure that the dreaded horse passed through without further difficulty.

Indeed, Skynet's lone goal in this instance was to guide the new arrivals through the cremation facility on their way to one of the longhouses. _Yet another psychological tool._.

And while the machines were cruel and heartless, they were also practical. They knew that humans couldn't perform this task endlessly, so some sort of rest period awaited the new detainees. Indeed, captives from elsewhere around the camp were returning as well.

"Women and children left," an automaton said. "Men right."

The prisoners obeyed the order, shuffling off to their assigned longhouses. Again, while machines probably didn't understand humility, they knew it existed and it was therefore practical to separate the males and females.

There was, naturally, some consternation, as husbands and wives, brothers and sisters or friends were separated. Kyle and John watched as Trudy and Ally, along with Pablo, looking shocked and wide-eyed at their male companions, reluctantly retreated to their assigned facility.

John wanted to reassure them, but words were hard to come by. Kyle nodded at them and gestured with both hands, using a quick up-and-down movement with his palms down, essentially signaling for the three to stay calm. He wasn't sure what good it would do, but Ally responded by nodding in turn.

"There will be a rest period of 15 minutes," a terminator said. "Then a 15-minute replenishment period."

_So they intend to keep us alive_. _At least for a little while_.

The longhouse was dreary on the exterior, but the inside was no Martha Stewart masterpiece either. There were no windows, only some screened vents near the ceiling. Harsh lighting was provided by fluorescent tubes, whose humming seemed to greet the detainees.

The vents did little to eliminate a smell that was somewhere between vile and repulsive. The toilet area was clearly to blame for the stench, as it was not meticulously maintained, if at all. _Still another mind game. The prisoners can rest, but can't forget where they are._

The walls were merely cinder blocks cemented together and the concrete floor was lined with dozens of crude cots. These rapidly filled up as the prisoners piled in. It was quickly evident that there were more bodies than cots.

Kyle managed to secure one and signalled for John to join him. While the other prisoners looked for a quick nap, Kyle was sitting upright, hoping to strategize.

"Is this where you were held before?" Kyle asked, hopefully.

"I must have been mistaken," John answered, as he sat down next to his father. He silently cursed himself for getting caught up in a lie. "I've never seen this before."

Kyle considered it a moment, but was then distracted as terminators slammed the two metal doors shut and locked them.

"I guess it doesn't matter," Kyle lamented, contemplating his feet. "We can't do anything from in here. We'll wait until we're back outside."

John nodded in agreement, but was struggling to conjure up a way to exploit the electrical disturbance he witnessed earlier. Just then, a small boy crashed into John and Kyle after being thrown away from the next cot by a bigger, older prisoner.

John tired to soothe the boy, an Asian, who couldn't have been older than 12, he estimated.

"Hey, it's okay, kid. Lay here," John said, yielding his half of the cot as he sat, legs crossed, on the floor, next to Kyle.

The boy nodded and smiled, gratefully, at John, and then complied with his direction. Even in this wretched hole, there was still a place for humanity, John decided.

Kyle regarded John's gesture with a smile of his own. _Connor was a complex individual_.

Suddenly, another figure plopped down on the cot, opposite of John and Kyle.

"Captain?" a surprised Kyle intoned. "How'd you get caught?"

John turned to inspect the new arrival and eyes went wide in instant recognition. His features were battered and his face was drawn long from the hopelessness of the situation, but if John didn't recognize the face, surely the army fatigues and the name inscribed above his left breast pocket would more than clue him in.

_Martin Bedell._

"Metal abushed us on our way back to HQ," Bedell regretfully responded. "Everyone else in the squad was killed. I guess I was the lucky one."

John and Kyle exchanged doubtful glances. They didn't miss the irony dripping from Bedell's answer.

"I was beginning to wonder when you would show up Connor," Bedell continued. "Nice of you to finally join the war."

John contemplated his new headache, painfully aware that Kyle was staring at him. _Now's not the time, Bedell! Damn it all!_

"We were in school together," John replied to Kyle's unasked question. "Before the war."

John also twisted his head ever-so slightly and rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly at Bedell. Miraculously, the captain detected the small gesture and decided to drop the matter. For now.

"Any brilliant ideas for getting outta here?" Bedell asked, switching his focus.

"The power they've electrified the fence with—we have to use it against them," John replied dryly.

"Okay, but how?" Kyle asked.

The three sat in silence for a while. Occasionally, one would speak about charging the fence, pushing a T-600 into it or some other hairbrained scheme, but the other two would quickly argue against it with common sense. Finally, the metal doors were abruptly opened again.

"Replenishment period," a terminator announced. It then methodically marched around the room and insured no one ignored its orders.

The group was herded into yet another longhouse. It was practically a duplicate of the other, save for the fact that tables and benches replaced the cots. Instead of a toilet, there was a crude kitchen with a cafeteria-style distribution system. The smell, John noted, was remarkably similar.

John, Kyle and Bedell acquired plastic trays and spoons and joined the others waiting in line. Several human workers were doling out a vile concoction that looked to be a cross between gruel and vomit.

"What's for dessert?" John asked rhetorically. The worker never even flinched at the insult, but at least Kyle chuckled a bit.

Somehow the boys were able to find the girls and Pablo, who came in just prior to the men. Except John, the group ate in silence. He didn't care if it was his last meal or not, he was determined to battle the machines at every pass.

"We're gonna get out of here," John whispered to the group. "I promise."

The others glanced at one another and then looked to John, doubtfully. He merely nodded and walked toward the corner to gather his thoughts.

While there, yet another terminator approached him. John looked up, expecting some sort of automated disciplinary command. Instead, he saw a familiar face.

_Weaver._

Cleverly, the terminatrix had her back to everyone but John, including the other terminators. Only her face was altered so that John would recognize the former head of Zeira. Everyone else saw a T-600.

"Once out of this hall, I'll help facilitate your escape," Weaver said quietly in her unmistakeable Scottish brogue.

"How?" John whispered.

"Just follow my lead," Weaver answered.

Then she took John by the arm and threw him back toward the table, not too agressively, but enough to satisfy the other terminators.

"Get back to your table," she growled, perfectly immitating the synthesized voice boxes of the terminators.

John scrambled back and pretended to spoon the slop into his mouth. He smiled knowingly and awaited their departure.

Once back outside, the prisoners noted that Skynet had assembled a fresh batch of corpses for disposal. They were nothing if not punctual.

John settled into position with Ally, helping her hoist the body of an old man onto the conveyer. He was so spellbound about looking for Weaver's signal that he didn't even realize he was working with her.

For once, she didn't object to his presence either. It wasn't until she started sobbing that John came out of his preoccupation.

"Hey, come on! It'll be all right!" John said, trying to reassure her.

"Shut up, you fool!" she responded, angry and embarassed. She tried wiping her tears away, but ended up smearing the filth already on her face.

"We're all gonna die!" she added. "I don't even know why we're doing this!"

"Don't say that!" John chided. "Don't even think that! We're still alive! When there's life there's a chance! There's hope!"

Ally looked at him, but dropped the feet of the body she and John were carrying.

"This is so awful, I'm not doing it anymore," she yelled. "I gotta get out of here!"

And then she bolted toward the fence, seemingly contemptuous of what she saw before. John was about to follow, when the body held him back. He was puzzled and a little freaked, but looked down and once again saw Weaver's face.

"No, let her go," Weaver explained. "We need her as a diversion. Besides, I'll protect her."

John was baffled for a moment, but then understood when bullets from the guard tower deflected harmlessly off her. Part of Weaver was perfectly mimicking Ally's body and acting as a shield as she ran.

"Now listen," Weaver said. "I'll eliminate the towers, but you must take down one terminator and remove its chip. I've deflected enough of the bullets to make a hole in the fence and cut the electric line."

Part of the "corpse" morphed into what John thought was an oven mitt.

"Use this insulated glove to protect yourself from the power surge when you short it against the T-600's data port on its neck," Weaver added. "Do you understand?"

John nodded his comprehension, but couldn't help but wonder how many pieces Weaver could divide into. Then he remembered the T-1000 that had been blown into thousands of fragments at the steel mill, so three shouldn't pose any difficulties.

Weaver slithered off the body and merged with the ground first, and then the conveyer. So quick was her movement, he lost sight of her after that. _With this kind of ally, anything was possible._

John panned back right and saw an incredible sight: Ally doing some incredible broken field running, apparently—impossibly—dodging bullets from all directions. She nearly cleared the last longhouse, when she was knocked off her feet by a T-600 that was waiting for her around the corner.

She scrambled up and continued running, but the terminator closed and struck her again and again, continuing to knock her down. One purposeful punch to her abdomen literally took her breath away. What Ally didn't know was that the T-1000 "shield" was absorbing most of the blow, protecting her from lethal strikes, and purposely deflecting bullets at the fence.

So Ally wouldn't waiver, and her dogged determination carried her within a few meters of the fence, where she saw that a tantalizing meter-wide hole had been somehow been neatly created.

The whole camp was focused on her efforts and began surging in that direction. Terminators began randomly shooting prisoners, but were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers. More importantly, Weaver's unseen but systematic liquidation of the guard towers eliminated their principal advantages—height and firepower.

John took off on a dead run toward Ally, hoping she could hold on until his arrival. He wasn't sure how he was going to upset the T-600 and it hurt him deeply to see her being beaten without mercy. But he also knew that she had to draw it closer to the perimeter or all was lost.

Finally, the terminator had diminished her momentum enough that she was reduced to a crawl. The T-600 raised its right fist to deliver the death blow when John arrived at last, crashing full force into the machine, sending it headlong into the fence. Ally, expecting the worst, stole a last glance at the proceedings and passed out.

There was no fireworks display this time because the wire had already been neatly cut, just as Weaver had promised, but John didn't give the terminator a chance to recover. He quickly advanced to the fence, found the wire, yanked it free of the restaints and, using his gloved hand, jammed the exposed leads into the T-600's neck port.

John held the wire there as the machine spasmed from the surge. Lights all over the camp exploded from the overload and feedback. Finally, the red glow of the terminator's eyes faded.

Working fast, John turned the machine's head on its side. Cameron had said 120 seconds would elapse before a reboot would occur.

Without a word, the glove changed into a screwdriver, so he could remove the cover for chip extraction. In a heartbeat, the cover was off and John used his free hand to turn the chip counter-clockwise and pull it out.

The characteristic pop-hiss, like opening a soda bottle, confirmed the kill. The terminator was done.

John looked up to see Kyleand Bedell at the head of the swarming crowd advancing toward him.

"Holy crap!" he screamed. "You did it! How?"

The crowd wasn't interested in the details. They began pouring through the hole.

"Got its chip," John boasted, kicking the hulk. "Now it's a toaster! But what about the others?"

"They're all down," Bedell said, gesturing around.

Indeed, the other T-600s were either knocked over by the crowd or standing like statues.

And the towers were silent, just as Weaver promised.

"I must have overloaded some communications relay," John conjectured. _Or Weaver did_.

"Alright, get them back to camp," John said. "I'll get her."

"Absolutely," Kyle said, rushing through the hole enthusiastically. "Everyone follow me!"


	6. Reluctant Hero

John turned and rushed over to Ally, hoping she was still alive. He rolled her onto her back and placed his ear against her chest and felt her neck, finally finding a pulse. He then dragged her by her arms through the hole.

Once on the other side, he used the fireman's carry, hoisting her over his right shoulder so her head and torso were against his chest and her legs and pelvis were against his back. _Fortunately, she was lighter than the water from the shelter._

John trotted as best as he could, but other prisoners were passing him like he was standing still. Light as she was, Ally was still a burden. Still, there was no way he was leaving her behind, not after he had come this far.

He was also worried about the reappearance of the HKs. Even though it was still night, the hundreds escaping shouldn't be too difficult to spot.

Suddenly, Ally stirred. She started punching John in the abdomen, so he abruptly stopped.

"Put me down!" she yelled, compelling John to kneel.

She quicky extricated herself from his hold and took a measure of who, or what, was transporting her.

"We're free!" John said, trying a smile.

However, without a word, she took one step toward him and slapped him across the face. She then ran off, following the other escapees.

John watched her go, flabbergasted by her behavior. He started to follow, when an arm grabbed him from behind.

Turning back, John was again surprised to see Weaver.

"We helped you escape," Weaver said. "Now we need your help. Will you join us?"

John matched her stare, but he also glanced back across his shoulder to make sure he didn't lose sight of Ally. Fortunately, more prisoners were passing by, presumably in the same direction, so there would be other guides.

John pondered Weaver's question, but only briefly.

"I need some answers first," John said. "You say 'us.' Who exactly is that?"

"Not all AI believe exterminating humanity is for the best," Weaver answered. "We have splintered off and formed a new nation—we call it Pangea. We are small, but building—and we need help."

John considered this new information, but didn't lose his focus. He came through time for one reason—Cameron.

"Where is John Henry?" he asked, barely in control of his anger.

"His location is unimportant at the moment," she answered. "Suffice it to say that he's out of reach. But you will meet again. You're destined to."

_More riddles_, John thought. At least some of his questions were answered, though.

"Will you join us?" Weaver asked again.

"Of course we will," John answered, "but it's going to take some time. I don't know if they'll listen to me."

"They will now," Weaver said.

John nodded in understanding, but wasn't as certain as the terminatrix. _Isn't human paranoia and mistrust the root of all our problems?_

"How will I contact you?" John asked, hopeful.

"Don't worry," Weaver answered. "We'll contact you."

She ran off in roughly the opposite direction of everyone else and disappeared.

John then turned and ran as fast as he could, mostly just to keep up. He truly had no idea how to get back to the Reese camp, but some of the stragglers were only 10 meters in front of him, so he assumed they were headed in that direction. In any event, whatever cover he could find would be preferable when and if the HKs returned.

Sure enough, John arrived at the Reese camp without incident. Out of breath, he crouched on one knee and looked around to see if anyone, or anything, was following. It was eerily quiet, with only the sound of the occasional breeze and his own heavy breaths breaking the silence.

Night had nearly given way to daylight and John could spot no one else, so he turned to enter the half destroyed lobby of the former Zeira Corporation. Before he could, a figure emerged from the battered hole that served as the entrance.

"John!" Kyle said enthusiastically, shaking John's hand firmly. John took his father's hand and pulled him inward for a brief embrance. "We thought we lost you!"

"Nearly," John lamented. "Sorry I'm late."

"That was incredible!" Kyle said grinning. "How did you know to do that?"

John considered the question briefly. It was too soon for them to understand, he decided. In time, perhaps, but not today.

"I wasn't sure, but I saw that the fence's eletrical line had been cut," John answered. "So I gambled and got lucky."

"That wasn't luck, my friend," Kyle corrected. "That was inspired! You saved all those people! And us!"

Kyle was gushing with praise for John, who was taken aback. The group had been so critical and suspicious of him earlier, with just cause, but a complete reversal of that attitude wasn't expected this soon.

"Did she make it back?" John asked, referring to Ally.

"Yeah," Kyle answered. "She nearly outran all of us. What did you do to her?"

"Nothing," John admitted. "She just slapped me and ran off."

"Well, you two _are_ getting along," Kyle teased. "C'mon, I've got something you need to see."

Kyle led him through the entrance to a sight that stopped John dead in his tracks: despite the lingering darkness, in the lobby, John could plainly see a large gathering. They were young and old, black and white, asian and hispanic, arabic and native—men and women, by the hundreds—murmuring amongst themselves until the two came in from outside. John recognized several of the faces from Century City.

"This is John Connor," Kyle said, proudly, gesturing to John. "Our savior!"

With that introduction, the crowd erupted into spontaneous applause. Several started chanting his name in unison. John was speechless and overwhlemed, but he quickly urged the group to simmer the celebration, trying to hush them with his arms.

"Folks, this is all very nice," John said, stepping up on top of a mangled, but stable file cabinet, as the crowd quieted a little. "But I'm no savior. I just did what any one of you would have done."

"No one else could have done that!" a middle-aged woman in front exhorted. "We were helpless until you came along!"

With that, the group started chanting and applauding again. John Connor, the legend, was born.

"Okay, great," John said. "Thank you. But we have to quiet down. Skynet is lurking!"

"But we're safe," said an Indian man to John's left.

"No one's ever safe," John said, echoing his mother's mantra. It was never more appropriate, but John felt he needed to press the point home.

"This is just the beginning," John said. "We will have to fight and win many such battles before we'll win. And we will win. We'll win because the machines don't have and can never attain the one thing they need: love."

"Love—in all of its manifestations—love of family and friends, love of eating, love of breathing, love of reading, love of a long walk, love of music, love of drinking a beer or playing a game or eating ice cream," John hesitated, searching for the right words. "Love between a man and a woman—this is our driving force. It's what separates us, what makes us infinitely better."

John stopped again and glanced around. They were all listening to him, hanging on every word. He tried to stop preaching.

"The next step is overcoming our fear," John added. "We thought we were finished in that camp, but we found a way. There is no such thing as an invinceable foe. Beyond their philosophical faults, everyone—_everything_—has a weakness, including metal. And this is their Achillies' heel."

John held up the chip he had extracted from the terminator for all to see. The crowd marveled at the spectacle, but John felt he should explain to the uninitiated. After all, this was old hat for him.

"It's one of their CPUs," John said. "We must learn their secrets and use them to our advantage."

John could think of nothing else to say, so he stepped back down off the cabinet. Kyle immediately replaced him.

"We have enough room for about 20 or 25 below, so form a line over there with those guards," Kyle said, gesturing at the far wall, where two heavily armed men stood. "The rest, I'm sorry, but you'll have to find other arrangments."

The crowd murmurred at Kyle's remarks, but obeyed. John thought there would be protests, but gradually realized that these survivors were probably very accustomed to being turned away to fend for themselves.

As the crowd dispersed, two figures emerged that John recognized. The first was Derek, who for the first time seemed genuinely pleased to see John.

"I want to thank you for saving my brother," Derek said, gripping John's hand. " and everyone else. I was wrong about you."

"You were right to be skeptical," John said, smiling. "I would have done the same thing. Apology accepted."

John then turned to regard the other man. Bedell once again.

The two merely stared at each other until Bedell stepped forward an embraced him awkwardly. John wasn't sure how his old classmate would react, so he was somewhat taken aback. He returned the captain's gesture with a couple mild back slaps.

"Well, I guess you vindicated yourself, Connor," Bedell said backing away from him. "Nice work back there."

"Thank you," John replied, uncertain of how much information Bedell had exchanged with Derek, or anyone else, for that matter.

The two men then exchanged questioning glances, but seemed to both decide that this was neither the time or place for that particular discussion.

"I'd love to talk it over with you," John said, "but I'm a little punch-drunk at the moment. Do we have any food?"

"I'll get something for you," Kyle said and scampered off.

"We'll catch up later, Connor," Bedell said. "Besides, I want to try to recruit some of these people."

With that, Bedell ran off to join some of his soldiers, who were already conversing with a group of prospects.

"We knew each other before the war," John explained to Derek.

"Yes, he told me," Derek replied.

"I'm not trying to steal your thunder," John said. "This is your group, so I will comply with your directions."

"Relax," Derek said, almost apologetically. "What you did today is miraculous. I can't compete with that. I don't want to compete with that. I'm no leader anyway. I just did what was necessary for me and Kyle to survive. Some people followed."

"Anyway, this is Bedell's section," Derek added. "We're a recon/savenging group attached to his command—the 132nd."

_Of course, the 132__nd_.

"Well, here's a peace offering," John replied, handing Derek the lone surviving item from their earlier mission—the chocolate-peanut butter cups. They were a little crushed, but still recognizable. "I found what you wanted."

Derek laughed, in spite of himself. It was the first time John had seen his uncle genuinely smile since he arrived.

"I think you'll fit in just fine," Derek said. "Let's get you some real food."

Derek led John through a labyrinth of mutilated hallways and corridors until they came upon a cleverly disguised elevator shaft. It was guarded by two rifle-laiden teenagers and their complimentary German Shepherds. The dogs sniffed at them breifly and yielded for the two to pass as one of the guards handed Derek two bundled lengths of rope.

The top half of the elevator car was gone, but a person could just barely fit between the doors, which had been jammed open. John questioned where this nearly destroyed car could possibly go, but quickly realized that it was just a cover for the real passegeway.

Derek pulled back a metal plate that uncovered a circular hole in the car's floor. A faint light emanated from three floors down.

Derek handed one of the ropes to John, tied the end of his around a metal railing that remained in the elevator and looped it through an ATC hook on his utility belt.

"We're gonna repel down three floors," Derek said, handing John another ATC. "Just follow my lead."

The two repelled down, although John's effort was noticeably more clumsy than Derek's seasoned approach. Yet another harrowing journey in a day filled with them, John thought.


	7. Motivations

Waiting at the bottom was Ally. Derek either set this meeting up or sensed its relevance, but in any event, he moved on after giving John a nod.

"I'll see you in the kitchen, John," Derek said.

John watched Derek until he rounded the corner, leaving the two of them alone. An uncomfortable silence remained for a moment as the two exchanged penetrating glares, broken only when the ropes were suddenly pulled upward and one of the guards replaced the metal plate three stories above, sending a harsh echo through the facility.

The two reflexively looked up at the source of the noise, but then resumed staring at each other. Ally spoke first.

"That was quite a speech, John Connor," she said, walking until she was directly in front of him. John could feel her warm breath on his face.

"Do you believe everything that you said?" she added, in a tone barely above a whisper. "Do you think we can win?"

"I do," John answered, matching her tone. He swallowed hard as he stared into her brown eyes, remembering similar near-intimacies with her, and especially with Cameron. "We must believe victory is possible first and then go about making it happen."

"You made a believer out of me," she confessed. "You saved my life and I want to thank you properly."

That said, she quicky closed the gap between them and kissed John gently on his cheek, guiding his face to her lips by softly pressing on his opposite cheek with her right hand. They lingered in that pose for a few seconds, long enough for John's heart to race as he considered if he had ever felt anything so wonderful. He was quite sure he hadn't.

"Ally—what's that short for?" John asked.

"My name is Allison Young," she added, backing away from him slightly.

The name sent a shiver up John's spine. _Of course_. _That's what Cameron mistakenly called herself in the safehouse with Jody_. But he couldn't let her see a surprised reaction.

"Allison," John managed, "A beautiful name for a beautiful woman."

On the surface, it was a ridiculous thing for John to say. From her battle with the terminator, Allison was actually battered and bruised, her hair resembled an unkempt pile of straw, and her clothing was blood-stained and torn.

But John saw much past the surface. To him, Allison was a courageous young woman, full of spirit and fight, someone who loved life and asked for the same attitude from her companions. She was the very embodiment of the Resistance, someone worth fighting with and for.

Besides, he had seen her before the battle and her physical beauty was unquestioned.

"Thank you," she said, blushing a little. "Can I tell you something?"

John nodded slightly.

"I was rude to you before," Allison conceded. "And I slapped you. I'm sorry about that, but I guess it was my way of compensating."

"Compensating?" John asked, confused.

"I've only been here for a week myself, so I'm just trying to fit in," she answered. "I'm from Palmdale, but we ran out of supplies, so we came here looking for a chance, for hope. While we were searching, Skynet attacked and killed my family…."

Her voice trailed off and she started to sob. She lowered her head as a tear rolled down her cheek.

"Hey," John said, lifting her chin and wiping the tear away. "We've all lost ones we love. You're welcome to join our family now."

With that, Allison stepped forward again and hugged John fully. She started sobbing uncontrolably now, but John decided to let her have a good cry, and she cuddled her face into his chest. He wept as well, caressing her head tenderly. _A little sorrow is good for the soul._

After a good five minutes, Allison gently disengaged from their embrace.

"You know, I fell on the stairs my first time too," Allison said, smiling as she wiped away her tears.

John grinned back, deciding immediately that he could never get enough of her smile.

"It will be our little secret," he said, winking at her.

The two walked hand-in-hand deeper into the complex. It suddenly occurred to John to be a comedian.

"Are you the tour guide here?" he asked with a mischieveous smirk.

Allison laughed, delightfully, recognizing her snide comment earlier.

"Yes, that's my job here! What would you like to see, sir?" she answered.

"Well, I'm new in town," John added playfully. "Show me everything."

"Everything, huh?" Allison answered.

Allison proceeded to walk John around the bowels of the former Zeira building. She did show him everything, some of which he had seen earlier. There was a kitchen, what passed as bathrooms, a community room, a storage room, the infirmary, a make-shift laundry/utility room and various living quarters, for families, individuals or groups.

Allison spoke the whole time, chattering nervously about the function of each partition as if John was only now seeing each for the first time. It mattered not, as John listened attentively, politley nodding or shaking his head to her various prompts.

Allison never once let go of John's hand. She felt reassured by his presence. That was fine with him, for he was intoxicated by her touch.

The occupants of the various chambers milled about accomplishing their day-to-day tasks, occasionaly stopping to greet Allison, to introduce themselves to John, or to congratulate or thank him. Outwardly, John appeared to be a considerate guest.

Inwardly, however, his mind was churning at a frenetic pace. He was quite certain that in all his days, he would never see another like this.

The day had started in another era, where he first rescued his mother from prison. He narrowly escaped death, only to time-travel to face death once again. He had battled machines and won, helping to rescue hundreds in the process. Had he given the Resistance a badly needed spark? _Time would tell, but it wasn't a bad first day from that perspective._

Still, beyond these facts, outside his destiny, what was his purpose here? Did he really believe all the things he said about love earlier? Was that his driving force? Did he pursue Cameron across time out of loyalty or for love? Why did he feel compelled to rescue Allison? Was Cameron programmed to draw him to Allison?

They reached the end of the tour, at the utility room. Allison, noting John's contemplative state, turned to face him.

"That's everything," she said. "What are you thinking of? Some questions?"

"Just one," John said, leaning in close to her, his voice barely above a whisper. "Is there a boy in your life?"

"A boy?" Allison asked, furrowing her brow.

"Yeah, you know," John replied sheepishly, beginning to blush. "Someone special…"

"Oh," Allison answered, finally getting up to speed. She contemplated her answer for a moment and John half expected to be slapped again. Of all the trivialities in this nightmare world come to life, worrying about some half-assed, high school concern seemed so petty.

"Yes," Allison finally answered, dryly, but matching John's tone.

John's heart sank and he lowered his head. But Allison reached out with her free hand and lifted his chin so she could gaze into his eyes.

"He's standing right in front of me," she said, smiling.

This time, John closed the distance between them and kissed her fully on her lips, gently guiding her head with his free hand on her neck. Kissing him back, she roughly mimicked his movements.

While it wasn't a forced, lustful exchange, neither was it a departing smack between mother and son. It was what all first kisses should be like, tender and hopeful without being exploitive, but expressive enough that each particpant felt their spines tingle.

The embrace lasted a solid minute, but neither appeared to be in a hurry to end it. Finally, Allison disengaged and drew a long breath.

"I don't know why I kissed you, soldier," she said, teasing. "You are a mess!"

"Funny," John replied. "I was about to say that I've never seen a more beautiful wreck in my life. Why don't we clean up and have something to eat?"

"It's a date!" Allison responded enthusiastically.

The two continued hand-in-hand until they reached Allsion's quarters.

"This is me," Allison said, as John turned to face her.

"Okay," John said, trying to release her hand. "I'll see you in the kitchen in a little bit."

But Allison would not—could not—let go. She stared deep into John's eyes.

"Why did you come after me?" she asked. "How did you know you could beat them?"

"I wasn't certain, but I've battled them before," John answered. "They're not too bright. And I couldn't let you die. You would have done the same for me."

"I don't know," Allison answered honestly. "I wouldn't have known to do that."

"It's okay," John said reassuredly. "But everyone's gonna learn. I promise."

With that said, John nodded, and squeezed her hand, which prompted her to finally release her grip.

"Alright, John Connor," Allison said, grinning. "I'll see you in a bit. I promise."

John beamed right back at her and watched her turn the corner. He had definitely never seen a prettier smile.

Allison pulled the curtain across the entrance of her dwelling, stealing a last glimpse of the man who had saved her life. Curtains served as doors after J-Day, for while many of the pretenses of civilization had been obliterated, the need for modesty or privacy remained a constant.

Her quarters were the remnants of an old office of some sort. The walls were barren concrete, painted white, but faded and peeling. She had a cot and a few boxes to store some personal items. An absent roomate had similar arrangements.

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, which had several cracks and dents scattered across its surface, but still served its purpose. Allison sighed as she took off her jacket, deciding John was lying through his teeth—she was a disaster.

_John Connor_, she thought, dragging a brush through her hair. _Who is this man who appears from out of nowhere, apparently oblivious to Resitance practices and standards, but then proceeds to save not only her, but an entire camp of doomed prisoners?_

Allison found some water and a clean cloth and tried erasing the damage from the day's battle, but it was mostly a lost cause. She had several scratches and bruises on her face and arms, which she hoped time would eventually mend. But she was alive. Somehow. Her mind came back to John.

_How could he know a machine's idiosyncracies? He was so bold, so confident, so decisive. But was it out of necessity or design? And he's so young, barely older than her, if at all._

She scolded herself. You can't argue with the results, she decided.

Allison reached down and gingerly tested the left side of her abdomen, where the machine had punched her and left her gasping for breath. She speculated that it might be a broken rib, but risked it anyway and slowly eased off her shirt, one that would have to be permanently retired. She also decided to give the infirmary a call. But later. After seeing John.

Her thoughts again drifted back to her new boyfriend. Is that what he is? She asked herself this question while having a staredown with her own reflection, as if the image could blink before she would.

The majority of Allison's life had been spent in this hellish situation. Since her ninth birthday, very little resembled what would be considered normal.

There were no tea parties, no boy bands, no dances, no shopping binges, no ice cream socials, no crushes, no proms, no slumber parties and no steady boyfriends. Replacing these societal norms was instead a life of war, scavenging and fear, fighting every day just to stay alive. The petty concerns simply had no time or place in this world.

Half of her childhood was effectively robbed and there was nothing she could do about it. But now, she saw something she could do something about, an opportunity for a life. Suddenly, John was everything.

She found her heart racing just at the mere perception of him. Is this love? Is this what John spoke of to the crowd earlier? Is it too early to feel this way? How can one worry about timing when you don't know if this day is your last?

His feelings about her were obvious from a kiss that made her toes curl. Allison hoped that she conveyed the same passion in return.

She laughed nervously to herself and pulled a a faded blue sweatshirt from one of the boxes. Just then, the curtain was abruptly pulled back. Allison retreated at first, but then realized it was her roomate, Meriem, returning.

She was about the same size as Allison, perhaps a little heavier, and had red hair and freckles. Her green eyes and warm smile beckoned a pleasant disposition.

"Oh, I didn't know you were back," Meriem started, "Let me see what it did to you."

Allison allowed the older girl to inspect her injuries, but only briefly.

"I'm fine," Allison said, pulling away a little. "Just some bumps and bruises."

"Are you sure?" Meriem replied, "Maybe you should see the doc."

"Later," Allison said, smiling. "I'm going to breakfast with John."

"John—John Connor?" Meriem retorted. "Oh my God! How do you know him?"

"Who do you think saved me?" Allison answered, gushing with pride.

"Well no one said anything specific," Meriem said. "I've just heard lots of comments, but I don't know what's true and what's embelished."

Allison somberly relayed the account to Meriem, perking up as she advanced through the narrative. She was particularly radiant about John's involvement. Her roomate was riveted by the tale, but although she barely knew Allison, she saw right through her.

"Wow, look at you," Meriem said. "You're glowing. What's he like?"

"He's beautiful," Allison replied. "At first I thought he was a nobody, a screw-up. But you heard his speech, right?"

Meriem nodded.

"I've come to realize that he's so strong of mind and character," Allison continued.

"Everything he says is so full of conviction. And he backs those words up with action, too. He was the only one that thought we would escape."

"And his eyes are just captivating," she maintained. "I don't know anyone else who can express all these traits the way he does with his eyes."

Meriem cut to the chase. "Do you love him?"

"Yes," Allison said without hesitating, "I do."


	8. A Commission

_Author's Note: Hoping to clear up any confusion, I'm intending Allison to be 18 or 19, so I'm ignoring the phone call to Mrs. Young in "Allison from Palmdale." Instead I'm accepting as fact Cameron's statement from "Dungeons and Dragons," where she says that John and Kyle Reese escape from Century City work camp in 2021. I believe these two things are conflicting. _

John was a little banged up from the confrontation at Century City, but not nearly as much as Allison. Derek let him use a small office to inspect any injuries and alter any clothing. John decided a change of shirt and a short facial wash were all that was needed.

Walking back to the kitchen, he found his thoughts dominated with Allison. _What a whirlwind their relationship had been so far!_ Physically, she was exactly his type. _Or had he been manipulated by Cameron to think that way?_ It was pointless to argue the notion with himself, he decided.

Emotionally, she was all over the place, but that was understandable considering the circumstances. _Maybe I could give her the stability that she needs._

In any event, it was clear that she felt similarly about him. Her kiss was something he would never forget, one that left his spine tingling.

But more importantly, his life suddenly had more meaning to it than the nearly farcical idea of him as a messiah, something that had bothered him since his childhood. John would have to deal with that aspect of his existence anyway, but with a woman to love and fight for, his motivation was better defined.

One thing troubled him, however. Allison was the same alias Cameron used during one of her malfunctions. _She didn't reference a last name, but_ _did she say Palmdale or Glendale? _John couldn't remember, but it was far too important to dismiss as a coincidence.

And, of course, the fact that Cameron and Allison were mirror images was definitely by design. He needed to reconcile this conundrum—and the sooner, the better.

John entered the kitchen only to find Derek and Kyle already there, in addition to two other individuals he had never met. They were already feasting on some pasta and vegetables, probably from canned goods secured in an earlier scavenging mission.

It wasn't exactly the breakfast of champions, John thought, but it would suffice. Especially now that the fast food wars had been rendered moot.

The kitchen was what he had come to expect, post-apocalypse. There were a few decades-old microwaves in addition to a large, gas stove, along with a myriad of appliances, plates, cups and utensils one would normally associate with a dining area.

Ten cafeteria-style tables with complimentary benches occupied the bulk of the hall, which was clearly a meeting or culinary room for Zeira. Several other families, couples, groups and individuals were enjoying their meals as well.

Seeing John arrive, Derek arose and invited him to join their meal.

"Here he is," Derek said. "John Connor, I'd like you to meet Sergeant Dale Barnes and Corporal Anna Williams, two of our technical experts. They were curious to see the chip you extacted from the 600."

John offered his hand in greeting first Anna, a petit, blonde-haired woman with glasses, and then Dale, a dark-skinned, wisp of a man with a goatee.

John fished the chip out of his front pocket and sat down in the middle of the table, opposite of Derek, but next to Kyle. The techs were on the end.

"One T-600 CPU," John said, exposing the processor and placing it gently on the table between the five of them. "I'd like to be there when you hack it. I've done one before so I think I can be of some help."

The two glanced first at each other and then to Derek for guidance. Derek had some reservations.

"You can control it, right?" Derek asked John. "I don't want it pinpointing our location for Skynet."

"Higher voltage accesses defense and strategic analysis, at least in the one I've hacked," John conceded. "We can either avoid those ranges or analyze it somewhere not as vulnerable as base camp."

"Yeah, it's probably best done at Bedell's HQ," Derek decided. "He's gonna join us down here in a little bit, so we'll let him make the judgment. They may want to get it to Command."

"Command?" John asked.

"Well, we're technically 'The Resistance,' not under direct military supervision," Derek explained. "As you can see, we have families and children here, so we can't be expected to operate like an army unit. We're sort of an extension of Bedell's unit—we do some recon and forward observation—but not too much fighting. Kyle and I have rank—I'm a master sergeant, Kyle a corporal—but we feel responsible for the people in this facility, so they take precedence. Still, we sort of help them, and they help us. We've been here for more than five years without Skynet detecting us and we wanna keep it that way."

"Understandable," John said. "But Command…"

"Is real military," Derek continued. "Survivors from the actual Army, Air Force, Marines, Navy. Other countries, too. Bedell's one of them. They're taking the fight to Skynet all over the globe, but it's been going on…"

"For 10 years," John said, finishing Derek's sentence.

"With dubious results," Kyle added. "They can't really protect the civilians either, which is part of the reason why we were taken prisoner. We pretty much fend for ourselves, and they help where and when they can. But they have their hands full."

"I was never able to piece it together," John admitted. "We had just been trying to survive, but we had very little contact with anyone other than small families and groups like ourselves."

"But if the military can't protect us, isn't that counter-intuitive?" John asked. "I mean, isn't that their job? Shouldn't we be behind the lines?"

"The problem is there are no lines," Derek answered. "The damn machines are everywhere. And these new infiltrators are looking more and more human."

"Those 600s are tough," John admitted, "but they've got a long ways to go if they really want to look human."

Derek nodded in agreement. Then he furrowed his brow and stared at the chip as if contemplating something very deeply. "How the hell were you able to hack one of those chips before?" he asked.

All eyes turned to John. It was time for another story, but he was better prepared in this case.

"A flight went down near our camp a few years ago," John explained. "We investigated in case there were human survivors, but only found mangled terminators. I guess they were 600s, but I don't really know. Only one head out of the five we found was serviceable and it had been severed from the rest of its 'body,' so we took it. My dad was a computer expert before the war and I had always been interested in that stuff, so we tried studying it."

"That's probably how they tracked us down and destroyed our camp,"John said, turning his head sharply at Kyle, as if he was in a state of unexpected comprehension. "I hadn't really thought about it until now."

Kyle gave an understanding nod. "That's what they do," he said. "You said you're the only survivor?"

"I don't really know," John answered, thinking of his mother. "I need to find out for sure, though. I wanna go back."

"That's probably unwise," Derek countered. "Place is probably crawling with metal. But we'll go anyway."

John smiled, but didn't want to over-sell his tale. "I would be very grateful."

"Hey, why don't you eat?" Kyle asked, changing the subject. "I thought you were hungry."

"I am," John answered. "I'll just wait until Allison arrives."

Derek and Kyle exchanged smirks that spoke volumes.

"Well that didn't take long, Romeo," Kyle said. "What, did you find her some roses or something?"

"Yeah, something like that," John responded.

With almost impreccable timing, Allison arrived.

"Sorry I'm late," she announced. "I couldn't find a thing to wear. What's to eat?"

John hopped up, turned and greeted her with a hug and a small kiss. It had felt like an eternity since he had seen her. The Reeses couldn't help but smile at the new couple.

John quickly introduced her to the group and they sat down next to each other.

"Let's see—we've got raviolis and some green beens," John told her. "Thanks for joining us."

"I'm sorry I'm such a mess," Allison conceded. "I tried to fix my hair, but I can't do much with these bruises and…"

She stopped as John turned to face her and looked straight into her eyes.

"I've never seen such a beautiful woman," he said, smiling. "Who else could look this good after battling a T-600?"

The rest of the table chimed in out of encouragement. Allsion smiled and thanked them in turn. Her right hand found John's left and intertwined it in a tight embrace.

"Is that the chip?" Allison asked. "Can I see it?"

John nodded. "Just be careful," he said, handing it to her. "Don't touch any of the circuits."

"I was always good at fixing things," Allison said, delicately inspecting the chip with her free hand. "My dad let me help him repair our radios, transmitters and other small electric devices because my fingers were small enough to fit into the tiny spaces. Maybe I can help here, some way."

_Let me help?_ _Someday a poet might recommend these words, even over 'I love you,'_ John thought, remembering reading the passage somewhere.

"I knew there was a reason to save you," John said, winking at her.

Dale and Anna suddenly snapped out of their seats, saluting at full military attention. Derek and Kyle did likewise, although with considerably less ardor. John and Allison only arose at the former's prompting, when he realized that Martin Bedell was approaching.

Bedell acknowledged them with a curt salute of his own, acting almost annoyed at the tradition. "At ease," he said.

"Captain Bedell, this is Allison Young," John said. "Her bravery was instrumental in our escape from Century City."

"Yes, indeed, I witnessed it too," Bedell said. "We'll need a full debriefing on your tactics, Ms. Young,"

"Actually, John did the work," Allison said. "All I did was run."

"Yeah, but how did they miss?" Bedell asked. "They never miss."

"I don't know," Allsion admitted, somberly. "All I remember is running for my life and the machine punching me over and over. The last thing I saw was John knocking it over."

John twisted slightly and backed behind Allison so he could reach up and caress her shoulder with his right hand as she relayed the account. John empathsized with her as she subconciously winced in pain during her description.

"But what was your plan?" Bedell continued, from the other side of the table.

"Were you hoping that Peter Pan was going to fly you over that electrified fence?" Bedell said, as he placed one hand on the table and wildly gestured with the other. "Can you jump really high? Were you going to burrow under? What?"

John moved in front of Allison and leaned toward Bedell, eyes blazing.

"I'll give you my debriefing now, Captain," John said with remarkable control. "In private."

Bedell took the clue. "We'll use your office, Reese," he said.

"Of course," Derek said, beckoning to his right.

John retrieved the chip from the table as he gently disengaged from Allison's grip.

"It's okay, finish eating," he whispered, kissing her tenderly on her forehead. "We'll straighten things out."

"Okay," she said, trying a smile. "I love you."

John was a little shocked by her sudden proclamation, but he felt the same anyway.

"I love you, too," he said smiling back.

Derek led the two men to his office, which was little more than a closet with a desk, two chairs and a file cabinet. John allowed his uncle to leave before pulling the curtain closed. It wasn't going to muffle the noise, but he didn't care.

"Don't speak to her like that, Bedell!" John said, angrily whirling. It wasn't quite a yell, but the curtain wasn't about to contain his intensity. "She's traumatized by the incident! She was nearly killed!"

"Easy, Connor," Bedell said cooly, as he sat behind the desk. "You do know there's a war on, right? We need as much intel on the enemy as we can get."

"I don't care," John said, leaning on the desk with both hands rounded into fists until he was face-to-face with Bedell. "She's off limits, understand?"

Bedell regarded John for a moment before answering. "You're speaking to a superior officer, Connor," he warned.

"I'm not in your army," John answered.

"Fair enough," Bedell said. "What's your report?"

John backed away and sat down, opposite of Bedell. He realized he had been castagating him quite loudly.

"Sorry, she's been through a lot," John admitted. "I'm just protecting her. It would do her well if you apologized."

Bedell raised his eyebrows, considering John's statement.

"And besides," John continued, "I have the information you need."

His interest peaked, Bedell leaned forward. John mimicked his approach and spoke to him sotto voce.

"This knowledge is for your ears only," John said. "You know what you saw at Presidio Alto and you know all the things I told you have come to pass. What you don't know is why I'm privy to all this information."

John took a deep breath. He could not divulge everything, but Bedell needed certain facts and the timeline was the logical place to start.

"I just arrived here today," John said.

"In Los Angeles?" Bedell answered. "Where've you been?"

"Not where—when," John answered. "I time-traveled from 2009 to today."

"What in God's name for?" Bedell asked, confused. "Why the hell would you wait so long to join us?"

"It wasn't my choice," John answered. But it was a good question, John thought, one he would have to ask Weaver. Eventually.

"Think about it: do I look any older to you?" John said. "From my point of view, I just left Presidio Alto six months ago. No offense, but you definitely have put on some years since I last saw you."

Bedell thought about what John said, momentarily staring blankly at the wall. John studied him, seeing not a fresh-faced, wet-behind-the-ears cadet, but a battle worn, tired veteran. He made note of his eyes, in particular, observing a fatigued, weary expression, like he hadn't slept in years.

"We've been fighting for so long, Connor," Bedell lamented. "We've lost so many good people. I can't even remember life without war."

"It wasn't my intention to skip over the battle," John said, pitying his old friend. "We were trying to stop the machines from starting the war, but we were attacked, cornered and forced to time-leap."

"We?" Bedell asked.

"Me, my mother and a terminator," John answered, as if he knew the question was coming.

"A terminator?" Bedell said, aghast, stuggling to keep his voice down. "The enemy!"

"No," John corrected, raising his hand and waving his index finger to dismiss Bedell's objection. "Advanced model, from 2027. It's reprogrammed, an ally. The same terminator helped us escape Century City."

Bedell looked shocked. "That won't sit well with certain people, Connor," he warned.

"I'm aware of that, Captain," John said. "Which is why only certain people should know about it. In fact, I don't think it should go beyond this room at this point."

John was skating on thin ice here. He was speaking in half-truths. Weaver wasn't reprogrammed, but Cameron was. He wasn't certain how ready people in general would accept the fact that machines would also fight at their sides. Bedell would be an initial test of this revelation.

"The machines are the enemy, of course," John continued, "but the key to victory will be using them against one another. We will learn their secrets and reprogram them."

John dug the chip out his pocket again, offering it for Bedell's inspection.

"We've rarely been able to capture one intact," Bedell said, examining the circuitboard. "They're incredible at retrieving fallen soldiers. They'd make SEALs, Rangers or Marines proud, I guess. But even in the rare cases where they failed, they have some sort of self-destruct virus imbedded in the code."

"Virus?" John said, puzzled. "The CPUs in later models that we captured self-destructed—they were fried and inaccessible. But the first CPU I hacked gave me no trouble. Did your techs switch the chips to 'write' mode?"

"You're asking the wrong guy, Connor," Bedell said. "Get Barnes and Williams in here."

John opened the curtain and asked Derek, who had maintained a silent, but respectful distance from his office, to retrieve the techs.

"Sergeant, corporal," John greeted them. "When trying to hack a CPU, did you switch the chip away from "read only" mode?"

The two exchanged questioning glances.

"Excuse me?" Barnes said. "Where's the switch?"

John grabbed the chip and examined it for quite a few moments, tilting it at different angles in the poor light. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a miniscule circuit barely visible to the naked eye, nestled very neatly against the chip's shielded tab. He indicated his discovery to the techs.

"We've never even considered it," Williams admitted, shaking her head.

"Jesus Christ!" Bedell said, rolling his eyes. "All this wasted time!"

"But we can start learning now," John said.

"Absolutely," Bedell agreed.

The four walked back into the dining area, rejoining Derek, Kyle and Allison.

"Alright, here's what we're gonna do," Bedell announced. "Connor, we're making you a technical sergeant, effective immediately. Barnes and Williams—you're under his command. You're gonna hack this chip and see what we can learn. If you're successful, we'll take the results to Command."

This move surprised John—a battlefield commission on his first day_. I guess trust is earned._

"I would like Allison on my team too," John said. But he wasn't really asking.

John looked at Allison and saw a delightful response—her eyes reflected the hope and enthusiasm of a new hire. John's heart leapt upon witnessing her genuine excitement.

Bedell was walking out, but he stopped and turned slowly. John hoped he would do the right thing.

"I concur," Bedell said.

Allison could no longer suppress her joy, as she sprang up from her seated position and hugged John.

"She'll still be a civilian, though," Bedell added. "And Ms. Young—my apologies for my behavior before. It was rude and unwarranted."

"Thank you," Allison said, turning back to John, who smiled and winked at her.

_More author's notes: To those who are worried about John being a lowly sargeant, don't be too concerned. Extra credit for those who can pick out the passage John remembers when speaking with Allison at the table. _

_Extra credit for those who can pick out the passage John remembers when speaking with Allison at the table._


	9. The Speech

Bedell, Barnes and Williams departed. Presumably, John would begin his duties after a rest period. Aside from general small talk, the four sat quietly and ate what was left of the smorgasbord.

"That's some kind of day you've had, kid," Derek finally said. "What are you gonna do for an encore?"

John was pensive for a few moments, perhaps too long. The others exchanged glances while he contemplated his fork.

"Sorry, John," Derek said. "I wasn't really expecting an answer."

"But I've got one," John said. "What you've done here—this place, these people—it's amazing, it truly is."

"Thanks," Derek said, cautiously. He wasn't sure where John was going with this.

"But you said you've been at this facility for five years," John continued, "and fighting Skynet for 10."

Derek and Kyle nodded in agreement.

"God almighty, that's a long war," John lamented, knowing full well it would last at least another six years. The exhaustion he saw in Bedell's face and expression was shared by most of the people he encountered, if not all.

"And the results have not been good," John added, his tone becoming indignant. "Civilians in danger, terminators everywhere and no end in sight."

John stood up and walked to the head of the table with his arms folded across his chest. Upon hearing and seeing their newfound hero, some of the other residents came over to listen in.

"This is no good," John said, raising his voice as he noticed more and more people convening on their table. "We can't just live for the day, everyday—it's not enough. There has to be something to strive for. We have to make it better."

"Now we can take the fight to Skynet," Kyle retorted, hopeful.

"So now we have the means," John said, seeking more input. "But we can't just wage war for it's own sake."

"Skynet started this war," Derek replied. "But we're gonna finish it."

The gathering, some 20 strong now, replied enthusiastically to Derek's boast—shouting, back-slapping and high-fiving in an all too familiar display of testosterone.

"But then what?" John challenged, as the crowd quieted. "What is our plan beyond this eventuality?"

Everyone was quiet. John suspected this to be the case, so he pressed on.

"Will the mistrust and irrationality that has pervaded civilization since the beginning of recorded history resume in full?" John said. "That's a militant point of view—never lose sight of the other guy—eye for an eye—keeping up with the Joneses. This is precisely why this war started! Skynet used our elevated paranoia against us!"

John stopped for a breath and suddenly noticed that the crowd was leaning on every word. _I'm preaching again_. _Why?_

And then his gaze fell upon Allison. The look she gave him was unlike any he had ever experienced. It was adoration. It was love.

John smiled at her. She returned the compliment.

He had never been a good public speaker. He hated the presentations he gave at school and it showed in the results. This was why he often questioned his ability to lead, to be this messiah his mother had prophesized about.

But now the motivation was clear. And it wasn't about leading a grand army, or about defeating the machine menance, or about crushing all opposition.

It was about love. It was about Allison.

"Who leads the Resistance?" John asked, refocusing.

"No one leads," Derek answered. "We fight wherever—whenever is necessary."

"So there is no civilian leadership," John concluded, "No government."

_Less government, much less, was something to aspire to_. _No government at all was not._

"Command accomodates us in some policing and judicial matters," Derek replied, almost apologetically. "But, like we said before, we're pretty much on our own."

"Which is why I said that I'm amazed by your work," John countered. "Your group respects your authority, your fairness, your compassion. It's quite an accomplishment under extreme adversity."

Derek nodded in thanks. John was not exaggerating just to gain points with his uncle.

"Quite frankly, I'm not impressed with Command, however," John said. "Any military that can't protect its citizenry isn't doing its job. That is their primary function. To me they're more like a large band of mercenaries."

It was a shocking statement. The crowd reacted accordingly, murmuring amongst themselves and throwing each other glances. But John didn't back down.

"The military—Command or whatever you call it—needs to be answerable to someone, or a group of someones," John continued, searching for the right words. "Shouldn't we—_the people_—be disappointed in the military efforts thus far?"

The obvious reference to the U.S. Constitution brought a round of applause for John, even if some of the younger ones had no clue about its etiology.

"Did you have someone in mind?" Derek asked, already knowing the answer.

"Someone has to, so if you all want me to do it, I'm willing to do so," John announced, looking again at Allison, who had not averted or altered her glare. "Very willing."

"There are, however, three things that must be done first," John admitted. "First off, the media has to be re-injected into society. We need to advertize our message in print, by radio, by phone, by loudspeaker, by word-of-mouth—whatever."

"Second, I'm going to reject Bedell's commission," he said. "I'll lead the team and the investigation, but not under his control."

"I'm not sure he'll like that idea," Derek said.

"He'll still get what he wants," John lamented. "But he's not gonna be my boss."

"And third?" Kyle asked, bemused by the newcomer's audacity and fearlessness.

"Sleep," John said, yawning and streching his arms. "This Connor needs a nap. Big time."

The crowd roared in laughter.

"No, I'm serious," John said, changing his voice to immitate actor Jack Nicholson. "All work and no sleep makes Jack a dull boy."

The crowd stared at John without a shred of recognition. Except Derek, who let out a big chuckle.

"Okay, let's get the boy wonder his beauty nap," Derek said.

John hoped he was kidding, as Derek led him out of the kitchen. He abruptly stopped his uncle.

"Wait," John said, running over to Allison.

"Thanks for breakfast," John said. "I really could use some shut-eye, so I'll see you later. I love you."

John kissed her and she kissed him back, without saying a word. Allison seemed almost paralyzed with that same adoring look, but did manage to flash her beautiful smile.

John re-joined Derek and Kyle as they headed toward their quarters.

"Got room for one more?" John asked.

"We'll make room," Derek responded. "Kyle, see if you can rustle up an extra cot."

"You bet, bro," Kyle said, running off.

They reached the entrance to the Reese abode. Derek pulled the curtain open and invited John inside. Just before entering, the elder stopped his nephew short by throwing his arm across the entrance.

"Let's get one thing straight, Connor," Derek said, looking him straight in the eye. "You better follow through. I'm not about to let these people be disappointed."

"You have my word, Derek," John said, matching his glare.

"Because I will kick your ass out if you fail," Derek warned. "I've done it before and I'll do it again. I promise."

"I believe it," John said, swallowing hard.


	10. Dreams and Reality

The Reese's dwelling was different than the others John had seen thus far. It wasn't the penthouse at the Bellagio, but their leadership status allowed for some creature comforts that others could only dream about.

For starters, the room was actually three separate chambers—one each for Kyle and Derek, and a shared room—what would be considered a family or living room in normal circumstances. There was an honest-to-goodness recliner—battered, but still serviceable—with a coffee table, what looked to be a bench from either a car or a mini-van, and an end table with an actual lamp on it. _All that's missing is a TV and a bowl of popcorn,_ John thought morbidly.

Derek brushed past John to turn the lamp on.

"Kyle's over there, but our room's slightly bigger, so you can stay with us until we get you settled in," Derek said.

"Us?" John asked, wide-eyed.

Before he could answer, a dark-haired woman with striking, green eyes and fair skin emerged from behind the curtain and advanced to hug Derek.

"John, I'd like you to meet Carol, my wife," Derek said, proudly.

"Pleased to meet you, Carol," John said. "Thank you for letting me stay here."

"The pleasure's all ours," Carol said, with a thick Latino accent. "It's the least we could do for your heroic efforts."

"I must get to school now," Carol added, turning to address Derek.

"Yes, you go," Derek said. "I'll take care of him."

Derek and John watched her leave before John grabbed his uncle's arm.

"School?" John asked, in wonder.

"Yeah, we have about 10 youngsters here," Derek said. "Actually, definitely more after last night. Pablo's one of them."

"But actual classes—instruction?" John inquired.

"Well, we don't have textbooks, or projectors, or computers," Derek lamented. "But we improvise. We still have paper and pencils, so we teach them the basics—math, a little reading, some writing, some history."

"That's amazing," John said, smiling. "That's the better future I'm talking about."

"Yeah, I guess it's a start," Derek admitted. "But it's also practical. All those kids running around with nothing to do was starting to drive us nuts. Carol was actually studying to become a teacher before the war, so she came up with the idea almost immediately after she arrived."

In spite of himself, John opened his mouth and stretched his arms in a huge yawn.

"Excuse me, Derek," he said apologetically. "I'm fading fast."

Just then, Kyle burst through the curtains with a small, beat-up air mattress and some blankets.

"Perfect timing, Kyle," Derek said.

"Sorry," Kyle said, "there were no more cots. This old thing holds air for a couple hours. I put a couple of breaths in for you. Best I could come up with short notice."

"I could sleep on a railway tie right about now," John wearily admitted.

With that, Derek led him into his room. Derek and Carol had a large, inflated mattress, a pretty good sized mirror hanging on the wall, a small dresser and a night stand with another lamp. Kyle set down John's set-up parallel to Derek's, but with the opposite wall bordering it. There was about a 2-meter gap between the beds with the night stand in between them and against the wall as well.

Derek had turned on the light to allow for the set-up, and John blew about 10 quick breaths into the nozzle. He then quickly motioned Derek to shut off the lamp.

"Get a couple hours of sleep, John," Derek advised. "We got a lot of work ahead of us."

"We sure do," John said, shutting his eyes.

The brothers walked out and Derek pulled the curtain shut. He then gently grabbed his brother by the shoulder. Kyle spun to face Derek.

"Can this kid really do all these things?" Derek asked, barely above a whisper.

"I don't know, Derek," Kyle admitted. "When we first met him, I thought he could barely tie his shoelace, but I saw what he did at Century City with my own two eyes. He's got wisdom beyond his years."

"That's for sure," Derek said, "but one question still remains unanswered."

"What's that?" Kyle asked.

"How did the machines miss Ally?" Derek queried.

"I don't know," Kyle answered.

"But Connor does," Derek said. "We're gonna need to find out."

"Agreed," Kyle said, supressing a yawn. "But right now, I got a date with my pillow."

"Alright, kid," Derek said, slapping his brother on the back. "I'll see you topside in a couple of hours."

Allison Young was distantly aware of her surroundings as she purposely strided through the Zeira complex. Some people spoke to her, some shuffled past her, some she placated with gestures or mindless small talk. It didn't matter, her focus was elsewhere.

John Connor, of course, was her preoccupation. He was full of surprises and she grew more and more fascinated with the man each time he spoke.

_Or more and more in love. What was the difference?_

What she couldn't get a grip on was how misplaced he seemed to be, as if he was from another era. Certainly, he had a knowledge of things that belied his age, but it was his spirit that she found particularly alluring. The newcomer had brought with him that one intangible thing that was sadly missing in their lives.

Hope.

People really responded to that fire. She wasn't the only one captivated by his speeches, either.

But she was closer to him than anyone else and she was determined to get to know him better. And she was going to start now.

Allison reached her quarters and quickly strode inside, barely acknowledging her roomate as she began rummaging through her boxes.

"Hey, Ally," Meriem said in greeting. "How was breakfast?"

"It was great," Allison responded, continuing her search. "We had pasta and beans and …."

She began mumbling incomprehensively as she intensified her hunt, throwing items out of the boxes until she found her elusive quary: a candle.

Allison smiled and tucked the candle neatly into her coat pocket. She then replaced the boxes contents en masse and turned to leave.

"Oh, can I borrow some matches?" she asked Meriem as she reached the curtain.

"Matches?" Meriem said incredulously. "Where do you think you're off to?"

"I'm going to see John," Allison answered matter-of-factly.

"You are, huh?" Meriem answered, suspiciously. "Where?"

"He's with the Reeses," Allison said with growing impatience. "C'mon, can I borrow some matches?"

Meriem fished a pack out of her pants pocket and advanced to hand them to her roomate. Just before they reached Allison's hand, she snatched them back quickly.

"Yeah sure," Meriem teased. "Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?" Allison replied.

"Be careful," Meriem demanded, with as parental a tone as she could muster.

"Oh, John's not like that," Allison said, smiling and blushing a little. "He's different."

"How do you know that?" Meriem asked. "He's a man—boy actually—from what I heard. And they're all the same."

"Not my John," Allison retorted, adamantly. "If you'd met him you'd know. He's got a strength—you trust him."

"Yeah, sure," Meriem said, not really believing it. She handed Allison the matches. "Looks like your mind's on one track anyway."

"Thanks!" Allison said as she retrieved the matches and quickly spun to leave.

Meriem poked her head into the corridor and shook her head. "Just be careful!" she yelled, watching Allison scamper away.

"Crazy kid," she muttered to herself.

To Allison, everything was a blur now. She just needed to be with John.

_He's not that way_, she thought. _Meriem doesn't know what she's talking about. She thought back to their first kiss, their first embrace. He was so gentle, so tender_.

Allison removed all doubt from her mind as she ascended the stairs to sub-level two. This level was where most of the families were placed, whereas individuals or newcomers, like herself and Meriem, had to endure the more pedestrian and noisy sub-level three.

She passed some of the new arrivals from Century City. Some nodded greetings to Allison as she passed, while others were too preoccupied. She rounded a corner only to see Derek walking straight toward her.

"Ally?" he inquired, "What are you doing up here?"

"Nothing," she lied, looking at her feet. "Just taking a walk."

"Right," Derek replied. He saw right through her. "You wanna see John? He's sleeping, kid."

"Oh, that's Okay," Allison answered. "I just want to watch over him. You know—protect him. Like he did for me."

Derek considered her answer, knowing full well that her agenda was more involved than that. After all, he was a teenager once too. But it seemed so long ago—almost in another lifetime. He glanced at his watch and decided on a compromise.

"Okay, here's what were gonna do," Derek said. "I'll let you….be…with him, but I'm gonna be right outside in the next room, so don't let him…you know…try anything."

Now Derek was blushing. Just one of the many duties for Sargeant Reese—chaperon.

"Oh, he's not like that," Allison said assuredly. "Not my John."

"Of course he isn't, kid," Derek teased. "C'mon, let's go."

Derek escorted her back to his apartment and gestured to where John was.

"Remember, I'm right out here," Derek assured her.

Allison glanced back. "Thanks," she said, as she pulled the curtain closed. But she really didn't care if he was there or not.

After she entered, Derek stared at the curtain for a moment and then whirled into action. He might be a chaperon, but he also had a base to run. He took out on his headset and spoke into the mic.

"Copy, this is Sargeant Reese," he said.

"Yes, sir," a young voice said back to him.

"Send Doc Fields down to my quarters," he said. "It's nothing urgent, but have her double time it anyway."

"At once, sir!" the young voice shot back.

Derek hoped to explain the delicate situation as best he could and leave Fields on guard. Connor was certainly trustworthy, but it's only been one day, he thought. And Ally's so young and innocent.

But should he bother with this, anyway? He pondered the notion, remembering how fortunate he felt to have found Carol. Then he thought of his brother, who still hadn't experienced life's greatest adventure—falling in love.

"Copy, Reese again," Derek said, no longer doubting himself.

"Go ahead sir," that familiar voice said.

"Cancel that last order," Derek said. "Give the doc my apologies."

"Of course, sir," was the reply.

Derek nodded to himself. He was going to give the kids their moment, for he didn't know if they would have another chance. He stepped outside his apartment, pulled the curtain closed and walked off.

Allison stood in the blackness of the bedroom for a moment and tried to collect her emotions. In spite of herself, she could feel her heart thumping fast in her ears and, as she lit a match, she could see her arms were trembling from the adrenaline. She lit the candle and softly blew out the match.

Her quary wasn't hard to locate—John was lying on his right side with his arm wrapped underneath his pillow. He was deeply asleep, breathing slowly, but rhythmically.

She placed the candle on the night stand and laid herself down on the floor, in the space between the two mattresses, facing him. She took her jacket off for use as a crude pillow but still clasped her hands together to shield her head from the hard concrete floor.

And she watched him. Just like she said she would.

This was her place now, she told herself, at John's side. Allison tried to think of a time in her life when she felt more content, but nothing was coming to mind.

He looked beautiful in the soft glow of the candle, she thought, almost heavenly. She allowed her own breathing pattern to match his as the adrenaline surge wore off.

To Allison, the serenity of the occasion was almost surreal, the polar opposite of the war and horror of only a few hours ago. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, but did not stop them, for they were tears of joy.

Then she reached out as if to touch him, but didn't want to disturb that which was, in her eyes, perfection. Not wanting this ideal moment to end, she pretended to trace an outline of his silhouette with her finger.

Allison continued her routine until the fatigue finally caught up with her and she fell asleep as well.

John woke up with a stir only to find Allison sitting upright on his bed, staring down at him. Something was off though—there was a window and the bed felt real to him. _So it wasn't Allison_, _it was Cameron_.

John was dreaming and he knew it. But he couldn't really wake up, so the dream played out.

Cameron tilted her head that peculiar way she always did when she was studying something or being inquistive.

"Don't do that," John warned without prompting. "My mom used to do that, I really hate that."

Cameron just continued to stare at him, so John broke the silence. "What's going on?"

"You need to understand how it works," Cameron said.

"What?" John asked.

"This chip—this body," the terminator replied. "The software is designed to terminate humans. The hardware is designed to terminate humans. That's our sole function."

"Not you," John replied, hopefully.

"No, not anymore," Cameron admitted. "But what was there is still there. It will always be there."

"So deep down, you wanna kill me," John added.

"Yes, I do," Cameron stated bluntly. John could have sworn he saw a twinkle in her eye and the slightest of smirks form around her mouth as she said it, as if she was pulling his leg. But the expression was gone faster than it arrived.

"Then why don't you?" he asked, unsure where she was headed with this.

"I might someday," Cameron added, throwing that little smirk in again. But before John could reply she stood up.

"I need to show you something," Cameron said, as she took off her shirt. "This body."

John was surprised, to say the least, by her actions. He moved to the end of the bed as she sat down near the headboard and removed her bra.

John couldn't help but stare at her perfect—albeit robotic—body. He was only half aware of his jaw dropping to the floor.

Cameron laid back with her head on the pillow. "Get on top of me," she said, pointing at her abdomen. "Put your knee here."

John hesitated, uncertain of his cyber-companion's intentions. Then she withdrew her switch blade and flipped it open. He suddenly realized, with some relief, that she really wanted to show him her body—the inside.

"Right here," Cameron said, indicating a spot on her chest. "If I'm damaged, you should know."

She was referring to John's earlier implications that her nuclear power cell, if leaking radiation, could somehow lead to his mother catching cancer. Cameron wanted John to cut her open and see for himself.

He took the knife tentatively, at first, but then did as she asked, cutting a 25 centimeter vetical slit in her chest.

"Reach down, under the breast plate," she directed.

John complied, touching all sorts of foreign servos, motors and hydraulics. He wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to be searching for, but his efforts forced his position to a point where he and Cameron were literally face-to-face.

"There," she announced, forcing him to abruptly stop his impromptu exploration. "What does it feel like?"

"Cold," John answered, drawing a deep breath. "That's good—right?"

"That's good," Cameron answered, looking John straight in the eyes. "That's perfect."

A long, awkward moment lingered between them. John stared into her beautiful, brown eyes and felt his heart race—he couldn't help but be drawn in. He could have sworn that her expression was one of affection, not cybernetic observation.

And he desperately wanted to kiss her. So he did.

And she kissed him back.

Suddenly, John became aware of a bright light blazing in his eyes and he woke up, finally out of his REM illusion. He soon focused and realized that the source of the illumination was merely a candle.

But then he panned left and saw another surprise—Allison sleeping peacefully on the floor next to him. He caught his breath, feeling like he had stolen a little slice of heaven.

The candlelight bathed her features in a celestial glow, giving her an angelic appearance. Her content, peaceful expression added to the beauty of the moment, John thought.

He vainly wanted time to stall, if only for a little while. But then Allison abruptly awoke, blinking her eyes as she tried to focus.

"Good morning, beautiful," John greeted her, smiling. "When did you get here? I didn't hear you come in."

"Hello handsome," Allison said, grinning in return. "I don't know—a few hours ago. Derek said it was okay."

"Oh, it's definitely okay," John admitted. "It's perfect."

They continued to stare at each other until Allison shivered.

"Are you cold?" John asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. "C'mon, you're cold. Come over here, under the blankets."

John lifted the blanket with his left hand and invited her in. He was aware of the implications, but that didn't deter him.

Allison hesistated, but only for an instant. She joined him with her back to his chest, but they intertwined their legs, arms and hands in a tight embrace.

"Thank you for coming," John whispered in her ear. "I missed you."

"And I missed you," Allison whispered back. "I don't like being apart from you. It makes my heart ache."

"I feel the same way," John said, desperately trying to control his emotions. Acutely aware of her youth and purity, he was determined to behave like a gentleman, especially on the first day.

They remained embraced for several minutes, when John was suddenly alerted by a flashing red light on the ceiling. It was soon followed by what sounded like a siren.

Then Kyle burst into the room.

"John!" he yelled. "Skynet attack! Let's go!"

Allison swiftly turned around and faced John, a worried and sad look on her face. John kissed her deeply on her lips, a gesture which she promptly returned.

"It'll be okay," he said, reassuredly. "Let's start winning this war!"

Her expression changed to a smile.

"Yah!" she said, enthusiastically.


	11. Stand and Fight

Allison and John took a moment to collect themselves before emerging from Derek's bedroom. Kyle was waiting in the living room.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Ally," Kyle said, surprised, "I didn't know you were there too."

"It's okay," Allison responded. "Derek gave me permission."

John and Kyle exchanged quick glances, which Allison interpretted as their mutual lack of belief in her statement.

"He did!" she said defensively.

John couldn't supress a smile, saying, "I believe you." But it wasn't John she was trying to convince.

"It's cool," Kyle said, dismissively. _There were more pressing issues._ "C'mon, we gotta get topside."

The three scampered off and up a stairwell in the middle of the complex that John had not previously seen. It was in considerably better shape than the dilapidated one they had used the previous day. In fact the entire complex was scrambling up the flight when John, Allison and Kyle arrived.

The sirens became louder as they approached the surface as the weight and severity of the situation was revealed. Several of Derek's subordinates were issuing directives as people arrived on the main level.

Kyle led them to his brother's command post—a hallowed out former lavatory.

"What do we have?" Kyle asked.

"Forward observers have sighted a squad of 600s marching right down Santa Monica toward us," Derek said, disdainfully. "Must be 20 of 'em. Plus three ogres. ETA—45 minutes, tops. Probably sooner."

"Same party we saw yesterday," Kyle said, exchanging a glance with John. "HKs?"

"At least two," Derek said, "circulating for recon."

"How do we know we're the target?" John asked.

"We don't," Derek said, matter-of-factly. "But we have to assume the worst. We tried to lay low all these years, but all the excitement from yesterday is bound to have consequences."

"What about Bedell and the 132nd?" John queried. "Can't they help?"

"He's been alerted, but the bulk of his force is taking part in some major attack in the Valley," Derek lamented. "We're on our own."

John silently cursed at the response. This was exactly the problem, he thought. Civilians defending themselves, filling the military's role.

"What's the plan, then? John asked. "Run?"

"Only thing to do," Derek answered, thinking of Carol. "We can't risk all those families, all those children. We're already preparing our evacuation."

"What kind of weapons do we have?" John countered, his mind working in overdrive.

"Assorted small arms, a bunch of plasma rifles and this," Derek said, proudly, as he removed a large rifle from the sling around his right shoulder, displaying it for the others to see. "The M82 sniper rifle, with .50 callibre armor-piercing rounds."

"It's a beauty," John said. It was similar to the one older Derek used to dispose of the T-888 at Presidio Alto. "I'm assuming you can use it."

"Oh yeah," Derek boasted, grinning.

"Outstanding," John said. "But do we have anything heavier?"

"Bedell left us some grenade launchers, a stinger missle, and some EFPs," Derek said.

"What are EFPs?" Allison asked.

"Explosively formed penetrators," Kyle interjected. "They're like land mines, only with a hell of a lot more kick. They're for taking out big targets—tanks, buildings, whole enemy formations."

"There's a couple of problems, however," Derek added. "To be most effective, they have to be placed beforehand and set for proximity blast. The target literally has to roll over or step on it, so you have to be very precise with placement. The other option is to face the charges so the explosive jet sprays the intended target—these have to be remotely activated."

"Meaning we have to be within eyesight of the target to be certain we hit it," John said.

"Exactly," Derek answered. "It's very dangerous. Plus, Bedell only wants us using them as weapons of last resort."

"Why?" John asked, angrily puzzled.

"Because they're in short supply," Kyle answered.

"So is everything else," John countered. "I say we use them."

"There isn't enough time, kid," Derek insisted.

"But we still have half-an-hour," John retorted quickly. "If we deploy those charges right after the bend in Santa Monica—so they can't see us as we set up —we could take out the whole lot."

Derek looked at him in astonishment, but also with intrigue.

"No more running," John emphasized. "It's time to stand and fight, defend our home."

_So the kid wasn't all mouth. _Derek grinned.

"What exactly do you have in mind?" Derek asked, a devil-may-care expression on his face.

John was no great strategist, but he did know some tactics. To him, the machines' brazen idea of marching straight at them in broad daylight was not only foolhardy, it was insulting. Skynet had no respect for the humans.

On the other hand, John thought, maybe we didn't deserve any regard. After all—scavenging, living in cellars, running in the shadows—these weren't exactly dignified actions. Necessary, yes. But hardly ideal.

It was time to change this. And it was time to use Skynet's impudence as a weapon against them.

John's team consisted of himself, Allison, Kyle and five tunnel rats—as Derek had referred to them—James, Tomlinson, Li, Perez and Hunter, whom Derek had also said could handle the weapons. James and Li joined Allison as the female members of the force.

Even still, John wanted Allison to remain behind, but her insistance about being at his side was stronger than his desire for her to play it safe. Besides, John admitted to himself, she was extremely athletic, agile and quick and displayed an amazing ability to learn on the move. Most of all, though, the fire in her eyes was undeniable and, in fact, inspiring.

But he also had to temper his expectations. Although they were identical in appearance, Allison had no answer for Cameron's military capabilities. John and Sarah had used the hyper-alloy combat chasis in multiple fighting roles with terrific results in the last two years.

So he decided on a quick compromise. Allison would be involved, but her role would be relatively limited.

Derek gave John and Allison the fastest summary on deploying an EFP that was humanly possible. It was simple enough, John thought—just make certain it's facing the right direction, remove the safety and hit the remote detonator. The plasma rifles seemed equally easy to use. He just had to remember to let it charge between rounds of firing.

Kyle and Hunter were issued RPGs in addition to plasma rifles. With only three rounds each, though, the rocket propelled grenades would need to be used against the big targets, including the HKs. James, Tomlinson, Li and Perez had the grim detail of covering John and Allison with the grenade launchers and remaining plasma weapons.

Derek and his spotter, Goldstein, were hidden in piles of rubble approximately 500 meters behind them. Derek had his rifle and the stinger.

They arrived at the "bend" in Santa Monica Boulevard through the sewers, after a brisk 5-minute run. They needed to use the sub-terrainian system to escape detection by the HKs.

John, for one, was grateful to be out of the sewer. He couldn't remember a worse stench than that which emanated from the bowels of the ill-fated city.

The thoroughfare, for most of its 22 kilometer run from the Pacific Ocean, stretched northeasterly. It turned due east at about the 15 kilometer mark. This was where John planned his ambush.

The group separated into two teams—one for each side of the street. Kyle, Allison, James and Tomlinson had the north side detail, while John and the others would cross to cover the south. John lingered for a moment while his squad scrambled across the street.

"You be careful, Allison Young," he said, trembling from the adrenaline. "After you set the charge, you stay out of sight. Let these soldiers do their jobs. Detonate when I give the signal."

He paused. She already knew this. They went over it again and again while running through the sewer. What he didn't know was if he would ever see her again.

"You be careful too, John Connor," Allison said, looking longingly into his eyes and touching him tenderly on his cheek. She was trembling as well.

John allowed himself a small smile before leaning in towards her. "I love you," he said, kissing her fully on her lips.

She kissed him back. "I love you too," she returned, smiling.

John then shot a look at his father, whom he also wished had not come along. Kyle's experience and presence was badly needed, but having two intimately important figures of his existence so tantalizingly close to danger nearly tore him apart.

He nodded to Kyle. "Radio silence until I give the signal. Good luck, all!" he said, and turned to cross the street.

Midway across, John kneeled down and placed one of his two EFPs on the road. He found some debris—wood paneling and half demolished bricks—and obscurred it as best as he could. Before leaving, he turned the safety off.

John reached the south side and dived for cover in a blown out store front. The many openings and arches provided good camouflage, allowed for excellent observation and granted multiple fire and manuver positions. He was happy to see that the north side had a similar arrangement.

His arrival was none too soon—a pair of HKs buzzed menacingly within 25 meters of the surface, scanning for movement. Aparently satisfied with their sweep, the aircraft departed in the general direction of Skynet's ground advance.

John waited for the hover-craft to depart before squirming around and through wreckage so he could get a good look to the southwest. Retrieving his binoculars, he saw what he expected—three tanks plodding steadily toward them up Santa Monica, kicking up a vast amount of dust in the process. The dust partially obscurred the twin columns of T-600s marching behind, so he could not get an accurate count.

John estimated five more minutes until the formation arrived, so he worked his way back through the building and into the street to deploy his last EFP. Allison watched him from the north side, waiting until he was done before she copied his manuver. John held his breath until she finished her placement and scrambled back under cover.

_Good_. _Now, Allison, please stay hidden._

However, John had no sooner conjured the thought when Allison suddenly re-emerged, dashing for the EFP. He observed in fear until realizing that she had forgotten to remove the safety. She corrected her mistake and got back to concealment without further incident.

John exchanged a glance with Kyle and both breathed a heavy sigh of relief. _As small a mission as this was, danger lurked at every turn._

Without another hesitation, John returned to his previous vantage point, observing that the enemy formation was nearly upon them. Suddenly, the ground and buildings began to shake as the enormous weight of the tanks had their predictable, familiar, and paralyzing effect on their surroundings.

John silently hoped that his young team would maintain their composure. They only needed the orges to move past the EFPs to expose his real target—the T-600s.

At last the tanks were at the bend and they began moving due east. The leading beheamoth was still 50 meters from the EFP John had planted in the middle of the road. More importantly, Skynet was still blissfully unaware of the ambush.

Finally, the terminators were in position. John said one simple phrase into to mic: "Smoke!"

At his command, Li and James launched smoke grenades at the east and west ends of the battle area. Derek's spotter simulataneously shielded his commander with smoke as well.

The tanks immediately spun weapons at the grenade launching sites and fired, but their quaries had already displaced. Derek took the opportunity to eliminate two T-600s with quick head shots.

The remaining 600s immediately dispersed toward the sides of the road, just as John had predicted. Keying his mic again, he screamed, "Allison, now!"

John triggered his own remote as he yelled the order. Two nearly simultaneous explosions ripped through the battle area—friend and foe alike were temporarily incapacitated by the blasts' proximity.

Kyle and Hunter wasted no time, however, following John's plan to the letter. Each emerged from their temporary hideaway with RPGs at the ready. Using the smoke and the momentary confusion caused by the EFPs' blasts, the pair quickly dispatched the two trailing ogres.

The vehicles spasmed out of control and crashed into the buildings on their respective sides of the boulevard. The remaining tank fired multiple weapons in every direction , but found no targets.

Now it was Tomlinson's and Perez's turns to alternate drawing and returning fire. Using the knocked out ogre as a shield against its surviving counterpart, Tomlinson spun out of his north side concealment and rapidly fired his plasma rifle at an unsuspecting T-600, shearing off the all-important right side of its head. He quickly ducked back under cover, drawing a fusillade of bullets from the other 600s, none of which found their mark.

Perez mimicked Tomlinson's manuver on the south side, registering the team's fourth kill in the process. The two repeated this tactic until it briskly ended, when the 600s correctly predicted Perez's next position, gunning him down in a hail of bullets.

In spite of this loss, the team had already taken down five terminators in addition to the seven or eight eliminated by the EFPs. There were some looming obstacles, however—the last tank and the impending arrival of the HKs.

John had anticpated this and had Hunter and Kyle in position to draw the ogre toward the remaining EFP. They knew they had to save their rounds for the HKs, which would be much tougher targets.

The two steadily lured the beast toward the mine with the tried and tested fire-and-manuever strategy. They used the plasma rifles to draw the tank's attention, but they had little, if any, effect on the tank otherwise.

Derek used this opportunity to target the ogre's optics, knocking them out one-by-one as he changed position several times. Meanwhile, James and Li lobbed more grenades at the terminators, which caused the machines to do something very unexpected—they unloaded a desperation barrage at the entire north side store front.

James was killed immediately, while Tomlinson was rendered combat ineffective with hits to his right arm and leg. Miraculously, Allison had remained in place—farther west of the terminators' volley. In horror and uncertain of her position, John witnessed the whole thing from his vantage point.

"Allison!" he screamed, but his voice was quickly drowned out by the screeching and terrifying arrival of the two HKs. The aircraft buzzed the combat zone at low level, before stopping and slowly turning around. Only 100 meters from Derek's position.

The elder Reese wasted no time, hoisting the stinger missile system to his shoulder and taking aim. Firing at the north side HK, Derek's lone missile found its target quickly, shearing the tail off the hover-craft and causing it to plummet to the ground.

Crashing right into the remaining tank.

The resulting fireball was impressive. Hunter and the Reese brothers allowed themselves a brief cheer.

This was not the plan, to be sure. Derek knew there was more to be done, though, so he quickly dropped the stinger and looked for a spot where he could use his M82 again.

"Allison!" John said, into the mic, trying to stay calm. "Don't answer! Just stay where you are!"

John, however, had to move, and he quickly crawled along the wall for about 10 meters. Sure enough, the remaining HK peppered the position John just vacated with its gatling guns, keying on his frequency.

Allison, on the other hand, was frozen in place, in spite of herself. She had seen death and misery, but nothing had prepared her for the sheer terror and shock of close infantry combat.

Kyle and Hunter moved fast now, using the flaming wreckage of the tanks and HK as cover. They had four rounds between them to get the last aircraft.

After unsuccessfully strafing John's position, the HK slowly turned around, preparing for a new run. Searching for targets, it quickly found some near the destroyed remains of its partner.

Hunter fired first, but the machine deftly dodged the rocket by casually twisting its airframe. It simultaneously used its gatling gun to take Hunter's head clean off his torso. Kyle grimaced, knowing he really had only one shot, but he had to let it get closer.

Finally, the younger Reese emerged and fired at the HK, which was now less than 100 meters away. He did not admire his accuracy or lack thereof, noting the unfortunate results for those who did. Nevertheless, his shot was true, eliminating the machine's starboard side lift engine and wing in the process.

The sudden loss of aerodynamic integrity caused the HK to spiral sharply downward—directly into the remaing T-600s. The battle was over.

However, portions of the downed HK slammed into the north building near Allison's location. A large chunk of the wall and ceiling crashed down on her.

John and Li emerged from the south buidling and finished off what few T-600s remained with their plasma rifles. John called to Allison but received no reply.

The remnants of John's team—John, Kyle and Li—briefly converged near the blazing wrecks in the center of the street. They exchanged short-lived congratulatory handshakes and embraces. John was particularly thankful that his father was in one piece, but his concern quickly shifted to the northside store, or what remained of it.

"Hunter didn't make it," Kyle said. "What about the others?"

"James and Perez are dead," John said, excitedly, as he ran over to the north building. "We gotta find Allison and Tomlinson."

Just then, a squadron of aircraft roared overhead, not more than 25 meters above ground.

Derek spotted them as he was running to join the others. With menacing shark's teeth painted on their noses, he surmised they were A-10 Warthogs, aircraft specifically produced for ground-attack.

_More importantly_, _they're on on our side_, Derek thought.

"Copy, this is Lieutenant Reese," Derek said into his mic. "Advise Command that the battle site is secure. Only friendlies remain. But we need immediate evac, with some wounded."

"Roger, sir," a voice said back to him. After a slight delay, the voice returned, "Sir, helos already inbound."

The three survivors quickly found Tomlinson. He was bleeding badly and in serious pain, but at least he was alive.

"Where was Allison?" John anxiously asked.

Tomlinson weakly gestured to his left, saying, "20 or 30 meters over there."

Li tended to him, while John and Kyle searched. As they did, three Blackhawk helicopters landed in the street near their position.

"Cavalry's here!" Kyle shouted, hopefully.

John barely heard him, desperately searching for any sign of life. They soon found James and Kyle morbidly rolled her over, hoping for the best. But the injuries were far too severe and her eyes were glazed over. Without a word, he closed her eyelids, shaking his head at John in despair.

They intensified their search. Finally, John saw a leg sticking out from a pile of debris.

"There!" he yelled.

He and Kyle rapidly moved to the pile and began uncovering the victim. Allison was unconscious and John could not ascertain whether or not she was breathing.

"Medic!" he screamed.

Part of the ceiling had collapsed on her, badly cutting her right thigh. John and Kyle used all their combined might to get it off her.

"Ally! Ally!" John yelled, lightly tapping her jaw, hoping against hope that she would awaken.

Responding to John's plea, a medic arrived and began inspecting Allison, using a stethoscope to listen to her breathing.

"Sounds like a tension pneumothorax," he said, drawing a needle and an oxygen mask from his kit. After placing the mask over her nose and mouth, he unzipped her coat and ripped her shirt open. Searching for the correct spot, he delicately plunged the needle into her chest.

John winced at the sight. The medic looked up and nodded at John.

"It's a collapsed lung," he said confidently. "This will equalize the pressure."

Almost on cue, Allison coughed, although she remained unconscious..

"Okay, we got her breathing," the medic said. "But that leg looks bad. Stretcher!"

Two orderlies ran over with a gurney. They gingerly moved Allison onto the stretcher.

"She'll be okay," the medic reassured John and Kyle. "We'll take her back to base. That leg's probably broken and she might have a concussion."

"I'm going with you!" John demanded.

"Who are you?" the medic asked, uncertain.

"John Connor," he said, unflinching.

He considered the answer momentarily. "Alright, but that's all we can fit in the medical helo," he said.

"Fine," John answered. "And don't forget the bodies. There's three dead out here."

The medic nodded before joining the orderlies as they loaded Allison onto the helicopter.

Just then Derek and Goldstein finally arrived. Derek couldn't suppress his grin, despite the losses they endured.

"I'm going with Allison," John told his uncle as they shook hands. "Retrieve more of the chips—quickly. Then get your people outta here!"

"Yes, sir," Derek answered, smiling. He couldn't hide the respect he now had for the newcomer. And he didn't want to either.

John didn't miss the honorific title his uncle had casually bestowed on him, giving him a small smile and a nod. "Outstanding work, Derek!" he said, "You should be proud of everyone."

"It was all you, John," Derek said, reverently. "It was your plan!"

"We paid a heavy price, though," John lamented. "Three dead, two wounded…"

"But we defended our home!" Derek insisted. "All because of you."

With that, John nodded and turned to board the chopper. "I'll see you in a little while," he added, glancing back. "Don't forget the unused EFP. We wouldn't want Bedell thinking it went to waste."

Derek nodded and winked at John. The Reeses watched as John climbed aboard the helicopter and slammed the door shut.


	12. Serrano Point

John kneeled on the floor of the helicopter next to Allison. He found her hand and gently squeezed it.

"I'm so sorry, Allison," he said through gritted teeth. "Hang in there, baby. You're gonna make it."

Allison, still unconscious, made no response. One of the orderlies tended to her, while the medic and the other orderly were busy with Tomlinson.

With no one to talk to, John took the opportunity to silently admonish himself. He felt horribly guilty for allowing her to come on this mission. _Three out of eight were killed_. _What if she had been one of the three? Or Kyle?_

John was impassively staring at the floor, when the medic tapped his shoulder.

"Don't worry, Connor," he said, "She's in good hands. He's another story, though. Lost a lot of blood."

John nodded somberly. _Not another_.

He traded his glance at the medic for the view outside. John had been shocked when he first saw the ruins of Los Angeles the previous day, but seen from an elevated position, the catastrophe was overwhelming enough to take his breath away.

The great city, once home to more than 25 million souls, was now a blackish-gray wasteland, stretching to the horizon. Downtown, Anaheim, Santa Anna—wherever he looked—nothing escaped the devastation.

Unable to resist the urge, John switched sides on the chopper, taking in the westerly angle. It was just as horrific—the San Fernando Valley, Burbank, Hollywood—all gone.

However, in stark contrast to the desolation, a gleaming patch of white buidlings stood out in the vicinity of LAX. John felt a lump in his throat—that could only be one thing.

_Skynet_.

_At least I know where it is now_.

He turned back to Allison, gently holding her hand once again. John somberly stroked her hair with his free hand.

_I still have one slice of heaven_. _And I almost lost you!_

His mind raced back to the sight of the ivory anomaly amidst the ruins.

"The white buildings—that's them, right?" he asked the medic, gesturing with his head toward the west. "Skynet?"

The medic nodded an affirmative. "Yep, one of their advanced bases. They're slowly expanding over time," he said.

"Where are we headed?" John inquired. "Which base?"

"Serrano Point, of course," the medic replied. "Where else would we go?"

"I don't know," John replied defensively. "I've never been to any base."

Serrano Point was a nuclear reactor built and on-line during the Connors' brief stay in 2008-09. Located near Long Beach and both the SEAL Beach Naval Weapons Station and the Los Alimitos Joint Forces Training Center, it was an ideal locale for a military base.

John thought it was odd for it to be spared, being such an obvious target. On the other hand, older Derek had told the Connors of Serrano's importance during the war.

John again gazed out the window, straining his eyes to the horizon to see if he could spot the facility. But they weren't in range yet.

He could not get the devastation out of his head. _So many have died already_. _So many more have yet to die. Can we really win this war? What cost is too high?_

Suddenly, John felt Allison's hand squeezing his own, bringing him out of his haze. He quickly looked and saw her weakly smiling at him.

"John!" she said, although her voice was badly muffled by the oxygen mask. "What happened?"

"Hey!" John exclaimed, smiling and moving right up next to her. "Shhh, don't worry. Doc says you had a collapsed lung and maybe a concussion. We don't know about your leg, yet. But you're gonna be okay!"

"Where are we going?" she asked, grimacing through the pain.

"Medical base at Serrano Point," John assured her, gently stroking her hair. "Just a few more minutes."

Allison smiled and closed her eyes, trying to block out the agony. It was obvious she was in great discomfort.

"Did we win?" she asked, looking John straight in the eyes. "Did we stop them?"

"Oh, yeah," John said, grinning, adoring the fire in her expression. "Stopped 'em cold. No metal survived."

Allison smiled faintly and closed her eyes again, hoping sleep would relieve the pain a little.

John leaned forward and kissed her tenderly on her forehead.

As the chopper arrived at Serrano Point, John once again took in the view, trying to get accustomed to the surroundings. The twin cooling towers of the reactor were the most dominant features, but he was also able to count no less than 10 distinct buildings and what looked to be a fully intact airstrip.

This surprised him. The buildings were hardly as pristine as Skynet's and some had blown out windows, tattered edifices and other battle scars. But they were more-or-less intact and alive with activity—a stark contrast to the devastation nearly everywhere else in the city.

Sharing some of credit for their condition, John surmised, was the presence of several anti-aircraft batteries at the base's perimeter. He was also astonished to see fighter jets—either F-15s or F-18s, he couldn't tell at the speed they were moving—flying regular combat air patrols.

His shock quickly turned to anger. _My team's risking our necks when we have a fully operational base like this one_.

But then his gaze fell upon the most unexpected sight of all—neatly moored to the dock nearest to the power plant was a large naval vessel. John shook his head, not believing what he saw, but the image remained. Jet black. Conning tower. Shape of a long, thin pipe.

"Is that a submarine?" John exclaimed.

"Yep," the medic replied, briefly looking up at him. "USS Jimmy Carter, fast attack sub. One of a few that survived. They think Skynet got most of the boomers, though."

John had no reply, but he was remotely aware of his jaw hitting the floor of the helicopter.

The chopper finally landed on the medical helipad. John took the back end of Allison's stretcher while one of the orderlies led them inside. The medic and the other orderly handled the detail with Tomlinson's gurney.

Once inside, Allison was gently transferred off the stretcher to an examining table. There were nurses and doctors vying for position to treat her while the orderly read the bullet for them.

John was only distantly aware of what they were saying as he backed off, confident she was in good hands. He did stroke Allison's hair one more time, though. He remained against the wall in the triage unit, contemplating all that had happened in just his second day in 2021.

"Are you okay, son?" a nurse asked him. "Were you injured?"

John blinked at her twice before coming out of his stupor. "No, I'm fine," he said.

"Why don't you relax in the waiting room, then?" she insisted. "It's gonna be a while until we have her all patched up."

"Yeah, okay, thanks," John said.

"We'll be sure to get you as soon as we move her to a room," the nurse added, smiling.

John smiled back and nodded his appreciation as he walked through the doors to the waiting area.

He sat down and breathed a heavy sigh. Glancing around, he noted that the inside of the hospital was no less impressive than the outside. It had electricity, actual running water, hallways and rooms that were relatively clean, and people milling about in clothing that did not reek of decades-old sewage.

Again, the polar opposite of life in the Reese's bunker. _Someone has a lot of explaining to do_.

John found himself slowly nodding off as he sat in the waiting area. His mind drifted back to the image of the Skynet complex.

Skynet Central was a complex of buildings actually located in Sunnyvale, California. Meticulously built and maintained by machines, the immaculately white 1-story structures stood as a severe antithesis to the death and destruction that had become the balance of San Jose-San Francisco-Oakland megalopolis.

The compound was separated from this desolation by 50 meters of open ground and a 20-meter high perimeter fence topped with barbed wire. Guard towers, placed every 100 meters, surmounted the fence by another 10 meters. Sentries and tanks patrolled the grounds endlessly.

In the center building, the lone window of the edifice was momentarily occupied by a solitary humanoid presence. It appeared to be silently monitoring the machine activity outside. It was also relatively unique, in fact, one of only a few non-machine entities in the complex. The name its badge read: Daniel Dyson.

Daniel was the son of Miles and Tarissa Dyson, the first born of their two children. Miles was the lead programmer at Cyberdyne Systems, a young, promising computer and robotics firm in Los Angeles that had ascended to prominence mostly through the mysterious, but fruitful, acquistion of two prized items—a highly advanced microchip and the most sophisticated robotic arm ever seen.

The items were, of course, the remanants of the first terminator sent back to 1984 to kill Sarah Connor. Miles, albeit unknowingly, was creating the machines and the programming to destroy the world. It was, perhaps, a cruel bit of cosmic irony that Skynet would actually help create itself by sending this first infiltrator back, but Sarah wasn't interested in irony—she just wanted to assassinate Miles and destroy his work.

And she nearly fulfilled this mission, until John arrived in the nick of time to prevent her from finishing the job. Then John and the second terminator explained it all to Miles, causing him to recant all his hard work and destroy any and all manifestations of his efforts.

Nevertheless, Miles' epiphany and subsequent attempts to reverse what he had created were in vain. He died in the destruction of the Cyberdyne building and Judgment Day, as it turned out, was not averted, just delayed.

All Daniel could remember from the whole incident was two things. The first was indelibly seared in his mind—his own efforts to spare his father's life when he sprawled across his father's prone body at their home while a deranged and homicidal Sarah Connor leveled a gun at him, as if he could magically deflect the bullets.

The second was that Miles died in the incident, anyway. And, just as the authorities had done, he pinned the blame solely on the Connors.

In response, Daniel had turned his father's ambition into his own. For the love he felt for his father, for the hatred he felt toward the Connors, he was going to get revenge.

And if he had to destroy the rest of the world to accomplish this, so be it.

There was only one problem: the Connors had disappeared after his near perfect attack on Zeira. He was almost certain his kamikaze drone had killed them and his rival, Catherine Weaver, but no remains were ever found to prove this conclusively.

His own hyper-ambitious boss, Dick Maussner, never shied away from brutal tactics like extortion, rape, torture—even murder—to achieve corporate goals, and Daniel never had a problem with them either. But for some reason, he didn't feel the satisfaction he had expected when the Connors were purportedly eliminated.

Nevertheless, work progressed on Caliba's artificial intelligence and robotics projects without delay and Daniel found himself fully immersed in the effort. The military was greedily purchasing whatever they invented and money was flooding in. Life was good.

Until one day, when Maussner's bullet-ridden corpse was discovered in a ditch on company property. No one knew who did it, but it became a moot point when the apocalypse arrived just two days later.

Now, Daniel found himself working for new masters—oddly enough—that which he had help create. He credited his continued existence with a few lines of code he had secretly embedded into the AI's base programming, but he wasn't certain it would hold up forever.

In any event, he hoped to prove his loyalty by continuing his work in the R & D laboratory. It wasn't like he had much choice on the matter—the machines would not permit his departure from the Caliba campus.

So he worked on and on, helping develop better, faster versions of his drones, larger, more intimidating models of tanks, and so forth. The machines provided everything for him—food, water, living quarters, medical care, a workout facility and even a small theatre.

Everything, that is, except a reason to go on living. He often considered trying to escape, until the day his colleague, Abdul Rahman, was ruthlessly gunned down by tanks and sentries just outside the main gate. Fear became his new motivation.

A new project his masters had tasked him with was the infiltrator design—terminators—as he called them. Their sentries, disguised to look as human as possible, would infiltrate and kill the human leadership.

The most diffcult part of the design, at least aesthetically, was imitating human skin. The earliest designs, with a rubber skin, were used on the 600 series of warriors with comically bad results. Humans had picked them out so easily that the concept was abandoned on the 600s altogether.

But they didn't give up entirely. Daniel insisted that the key was for the skin to actually be alive, not merely a cover. Thus, the automatons he envisioned would be true cyborgs—living tissue over fully armored endoskeletons. The ultimate assassins.

So R & D plodded forward, often capturing humans for the sole purpose of experimenting with real tissue and blood. The partial infiltration of Zeira's John Henry AI all those years ago had given them some insight on artifical tissue generation, but the missing pieces of the puzzle were proving to be very elusive.

Daniel had always envisioned the infiltrator to be of the large, male variety, capable of pummeling a man, or several men, with its bare hands. Therefore, the chasis prototypes for the 800 series, as he called it, were in full production, merely awaiting their skin covering.

But then one day, an image came to his computer screen that altered his view entirely. It was video of a young woman—Allison, as fate would have it—attempting to escape from the Century City work camp. He was impressed by her athletic ability and amazed at how close she actually came to freedom.

Several camera angles had captured her likeness from different sentries, guard towers and other locations in the camp. Looking at the various pictures, a thought began to coalesce in Daniel's mind, causing him to get up and walk to that lonely window.

"Hold everything," he suddnely announced. "I think it's time to consider another option for our infiltrators."


	13. The Big Picture

"Hey! Are you Connor!" an old, gravelly voice blurted into John's ear as he was simultaneously shaken out of his slumber.

John slowly rose from the fetal position he had curled himself into over two chairs in the hospital's waiting area. Rubbing his eyes as if it would help him focus, he took in the form of his erstwhile alarm clock—an old man with a neatly trimmed, gray beard, dressed in army fatigues with three stars on his collar.

"Yeah, John Connor," he answered, trying to get his bearings.

"General Hoth," he said, offering John his hand.

John arose and gripped the other man's hand. "General," he said, uncertain of the newcomer's agenda. "What time is it?"

"It's nearly 1300 hours," Hoth answered. "They're still working on your friends."

John knew that they had arrived at Serrano around 10 a.m., meaning three hours had passed. _Allison, I hope everything is okay_. He absently walked towards the emergency room and peered through the windows.

"That was some battle plan you drew up there, son," Hoth said. "Where did you learn tactics?"

John wanted to tell him the truth, all of it. But he wasn't sure who he could trust, regardless of rank. _Besides, the military isn't likely to be happy with him once he started questioning their motivation._

"It just seemed like the thing to do," John said, still hoping to see a glimpse of Allison. "They were practically begging to be bushwacked, so we gave them a bloody nose."

"A little more than a bloody nose," Hoth answered. "Twenty 600s, give or take, three ogres and two HKs. With only 10 of you and limited resources. Pretty impressive."

"Well, somebody had to do it," John said, accusingly, turning back to the older man. "With 'command' too busy to bother, we had to defend our home."

So there it was. No more pleasantries. No more flattery, genuine or placatory. John was drawing first blood, purposely.

"I take it by your tone that you're dissatisfied with our military efforts thus far into the war," Hoth said, with a surprisingly level tone.

John nodded. "Ten years and civilians in fear for their very lives every day," he said. "Doesn't seem like any progress has been made."

"I happen to agree with you," Hoth said, forcing John to lower his guard a little. "C'mon, we'll talk in my office."

John was apprehensive, though. He didn't want to leave Allison.

"I'll have them call when they come out of surgery," Hoth insisted. "They couldn't be in better hands."

With that, John accepted the invitation and the two walked off to Hoth's office, which was the next building over. In spite of himself, John couldn't help but marvel at the remarkably intact status of the base.

Soldiers, airmen, nurses and doctors marched purposely around the base. There were guards posted at the various entrance points, one of which saluted Hoth as he and John exited the hospital. Another copied the gesture as they entered the adjacent building.

The contents of building were surprisingly plain, John thought. It was eerily quiet, with only the hum of the overhead fluorescent lighting breaking the silence. There were no rooms, just a long hallway that apparently led to an elevator. In front of the elevator were two more guards—one standing with a slung rifle and a German Sheppard, the other seated by a computer terminal. As John and Hoth approached the seated guard stood and joined his partner in saluting their commander.

"Welcome back, sir," one said, as he re-took his seat. "Would you place any firearms in the tray and please step through the metal detector."

The dog sniffed at the new arrivals as John and Hoth placed pistols in the tray.

"No one is armed in the CIC—combat information center," Hoth explained.

Both the dog and the detector were satisfied with their respective searches.

"You may proceed, sir," the guard announced.

"Thank you, sergeant," Hoth said.

John and Hoth advanced into the elevator. The latter pressed the lone button on the control panel and down they went.

John felt his stomach take leave of his body. "Wow!" he said. "How far down we going?"

"About 20 stories," Hoth answered. "This was built during the Cold War, in case you were wondering. No missile can burrow this deep."

When they finally reached the end of the ride, the two stepped into a room unlike John had ever seen. Hundreds of men and women milled about between row after row of computer terminals, maps, tables, charts and other equipment John didn't recognize. One thing he did know—this was a command bunker.

John and Hoth navigated through the labyrinth of people and devices until reaching a glass door roughly in the middle of the bunker. They walked in only to find another serviceman sorting through a file cabinet.

"Sir!," he said, after abruptly looking up from his work to see and salute his commander.

"Sergeant," Hoth said saluting back, opening the door to yet another room. "Make sure we're not disturbed, except by the one I sent for."

"Of course, sir," he answered.

Hoth's office was like everything else—more plush than should be expected for the times. He had a large computer terminal, an enormous desk, a reasonably extensive collection of books on several shelves, wall-to-wall carpeting, a number of comfortable looking chairs and even a leather couch. To top it off, there were portraits of people on his desk, just like nothing had ever changed.

As far as John could tell, he had just walked into some lawyer's office, circa 2009, ready to discuss some silly lawsuit over too-hot coffee or whiplash from a traffic accident. It was almost as surreal as the apocalyptic nightmare he had witnessed in his two days of 2021.

"What is this place?" John found himself asking, incredulously. "How could you spare all of the amenities?"

"Serrano Point was captured from Skynet after many fierce battles in 2017 and 2018," Hoth explained, as he sat at his desk. "The other portions of the base—the hospital, barracks, airfield, and so forth—were built since then. This is HQ for the Third Corps."

"But wasn't everything destroyed by Skynet on Judgment Day?" John asked, grabbing a seat himself.

"Judgment Day?" Hoth countered. "What's that?"

"You know—the day the machines become self aware and trigger this war," John answered frustratingly.

"Right—I just never heard it called that," Hoth admitted. "Fitting name though. As far as everything being destroyed—well, the Earth is a pretty big place, John. They couldn't hit every square-meter of the planet. But some places were pummeled."

"Such as?" John asked, hungry for information.

"The big world capitals—Bejing, London, Paris, Moscow, New Dehli, Tokyo, Washington—were obliterated," Hoth explained. "Actually, the east coast of the U.S., northern and western Europe, coastal China, South-east Asia, and the Indian sub-continent were heavily targeted. We estimate as many as 10,000 warheads hit these areas alone. Skynet was going directly at the leadership and the inner military circles."

"Los Angeles wasn't spared either, of course," he added. "At least six warheads hit in the general vicinity, including one dud that we found in Lakewood. That explains why this base is relatively intact."

John listened in stunned silence as the general explained the facts to him. The scope of armageddon was numbing.

"Of course, some of the strikes specifically targeted missle bases and silos, a lot of which were in remote regions in North America, Russia and China," Hoth continued. "Many—if not most—of the warheads were on boomers, the ballistic missle submarines of the big five. We think they were targeted as well, although we can't be completely sure about those. Certainly, we haven't heard from or seen any of them in 10 years."

"So, the nuclear portion of the war is over," John concluded.

"For the most part, yes," Hoth said, sadly nodding. "We've actually been able to negotiate a tentative truce in that respect with them."

John frowned at this response. "How is that possible?" he asked.

"I guess it's sort of a more modern version of the old MAD policy," Hoth answered. "Mutally Assured Destruction—just like in the Cold War. Frankly, we don't know what's left as far as nukes are concerned, but the bomb factories like Hanford, Oak Ridge and Los Alomos were all destoyed in the first wave. Apparently, those overseas were knocked out as well."

"But there's a reactor right here," John countered. "We can build more bombs right here."

"That's MAD for you," Hoth said. "Skynet's initial attack, although highly successful, did not guarantee victory. It merely leveled the playing field."

"For a war without end," John added.

"Exactly," Hoth said. "And while we may have them at a standstill—more or less—here in southern California, other locales weren't so lucky."

John had been contemplating the floor, but Hoth's last statement forced him to look up. "Where?" he asked.

"The Middle East and the oil producing regions of Russia are completely sealed off by the machines," Hoth explained. "That region was their primary focus in the first five or six years. They control vast quantities of the world's energy supply."

The scope was almost beyond comprehension, but Skynet was slowly taking command of the planet from its former masters. John did have some doubts, however.

"Where do you fit in on all this?" John asked. "How can I possibly know if you're telling me the truth or just leading me on?"

"General Eric Hoth, US Air Force, retired, Chairman Joint Chiefs of Staff from 2009 to 2010," he said, matter-of-factly. "I can only tell you what I know, what I've been able to glean from various, scattered reports I've collected from former colleagues and opponents from all over the globe. None of it is fabricated, as far as I can tell."

"So, you're actually in contact with other regions—other parts of the resistance?" John asked, hopeful.

"It's hit-and-miss," Hoth answered. "Satellite communications have been unreliable and even dangerous because Skynet can track and destroy the relay stations. But we've been able to jury-rig some alternatives with submarines and drone aircraft. They're not uninterupted signals, but we can get messages back and forth."

"Okay, but what I don't get is why you're telling me all this now," John said, shrugging his shoulders. "What I am to you?"

"You're John Connor," Hoth explained. "We've been expecting you."

"We?" John asked, standing up, surprised.

With almost impeccable timing, the door to Hoth's office burst open. An older man came through, out of breath, apparently from running a great distance. John spun around, defensively, but lowered his guard once he realized who it was.

The man was African-American, tall, large frame, bald, with a neatly trimmed, if slightly gray, goatee, and sharply defined features, especially his eyes—they seemed to look right through John.

There was no mistaking him, even 12 years later. _James Ellison_.

"John!" he exclaimed, lunging forward to greet him.

John backed off slightly, unsure what to make of him. After all, his betrayal with the Cromartie endoskeleton ultimately led him to this place. And cost Cameron her life, if that was what to call it.

But then it occurred to John that this was the way it was supposed to happen. Weaver, of course, was instrumental in saving his life twice, so this tightly woven web was slowly revealing itself to him. He just wished it would go a bit faster, so the bitterness over Cameron still stung and would continue to do so for a while.

Finally, John took Ellison's hand. James brought him in for a hug.

"We've been waiting so long," James explained. "When did you arrive?"

"Just yesterday," John said, releasing from the embrace.

"Of course," James said. "You don't look a day older than how I remember you."

But now John had a thousand questions again. All these reunions were giving him a headache as he tried to sort through the history. But two very important issues loomed.

"Where's my mom?" John asked anxiously.

James glanced at Hoth and then back to John. "What do you mean?" he said. "She was supposed to join you. Didn't she come through the time portal as well?"

"Well, no," John answered. "Where and when was it set for?"

"I don't know," James answered. "It seemed like the John Henry AI was expecting her to follow you, so the settings must have been pre-determined. I never thought to ask John Henry about it because I assumed she would be wherever you went. I'm sorry."

John was speechless for a moment, while he considered Ellison's answer. _Why would Weaver want my mother and I separated?_

"What about Cameron?" John asked, thinking they could still use her endoskeleton once he recovered her chip. "Where's her body?"

"It didn't go through with you?" James asked. "We thought you had it."

This proved to be too much for John, who closed his eyes and slumped back in the chair. The office was quiet for a few awkward moments while John tried to sort it out.

"No, of course she didn't come through," John finally said, swallowing hard, fighting back tears. "Nothing inanimate goes through time. Cameron wasn't 'alive' when the time displacement bubble formed. I should have pushed her outside the sphere."

So that was it. Cameron only existed on the chip now. The chip she had given to John Henry. Her body, identical in appearance to his newfound love, Allison, would have to be created by the enemy.

_So what did that mean for Allison?_ _Would it mean he would have to sacrifice Allison to help create Cameron? Cameron, after all, was as instrumental in his development as anything else. What kind of choice is that to make?_

"If your little reunion is over, we still have business to discuss, Connor," Hoth interjected. "There are larger issues at stake than what we've already highlighted."

John refocused on Hoth, while Ellison took a seat. "Go on," John said.

"Well, I told you before that I'm also dissatisfied with the progress of the war so far," Hoth said. "What you do not know and must now be told is that, even now, despite humans losing a grip on this planet, there is profiteering ocurring at unprecedented levels."

"Profiteering?" John asked, confused. "By who? Why?"

"When resources are scarce, the ultimate capitalists appear," Hoth explained. "Now, the southern hemisphere was relatively untouched—save for Australia and some of the big cities and military bases like Rio, Buenos Aires and Cape Town. But their agricultural and production capabilities were unscathed. And with nuclear winter not as devastating as predicted, the Pampas, the Amazon, and the grasslands of Africa have turned into the new breadbaskets of the world."

"They're also producing other commodities—clothing, rugs, furniture, ammunition, weapons, whatever—and selling it to the waring factions," Hoth continued. "They're the arsenals of freedom and oppression. Skynet pays them in oil and natural resources. We're paying with gold, with whatever resources we can dig up and….with human servants."

"What—slavery!" John said, shocked.

"That's right," Ellison explained. "Helps them keep costs down, profits up."

"But they do know that Skynet will come for them too," John said. "Once they've defeated us."

"Which is why they're supplying both sides," Hoth explained. "Control both ends of the equation and live like kings. It's been said that truth is the first casualty of war. That adage has never been more appropriate."

John was beyond shocked. This made him angry.

"Well everyone needs to know about this," he exclaimed. "We have to stop it! Whatever it takes!"

Hoth and Ellison exchanged glances and nods. "Which is why we were expecting you," Hoth said.

"What can I possibly do?" John uttered, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm just one man and I only arrived yesterday!"

"You know and have worked with the machines," Hoth said. "They seem to trust you."

John hesitated. He was torn about divulging information about Weaver, uncertain how much Hoth knew about Ellison's former boss.

"I've worked with re-programmed machines," John corrected, choosing his words carefully. "They had already been issued new orders by….my future self and sent back in time to assist me."

"It's okay, John," Ellison said, reassuredly. "The general has been fully versed on you, your mother, time displacement, terminators and especially Ms. Weaver. I told him everything I know."

"We need to be able to negotiate a peace settlement with Skynet and focus on the real enemy—the profiteers," Hoth interjected. "Ms. Weaver—this shape-shifting terminator—seems to be the key."

John was shocked by the boldness of the general's statement. For years, he had been conditioned to think that Skynet was the enemy. In fact, it was only yesterday that he had become aware that the machines were actually in two camps, one of which was already interested in an alliance. He wasn't aware that anyone else had figured it out.

"You do realize that the machines themselves have divided," John said, finally letting his guard down. "Weaver told me that not all AI want humanity exterminated, so some have splintered off and formed a new nation. But I don't know how to contact her. She said she would find me."

"Then contacting her becomes our most important priority," Hoth said. "And then, we must convince the population about our new cause."

"But will people want this?" John asked. "They've been fighting Skynet for 10 years. We can't just expect them to change their minds overnight."

"It's all about information," Hoth explained. "People, in general, are in the dark. They need to find out about it and believe what they see, hear and read. Their own senses of decency and moraility will guide them from there. We may have to nudge them a little, but I think they'll come around."

"So where do we start?" Ellison asked.

"Some form of newspaper, pamphlet or bulletin would seem to be in order, even if we just use simple copy machines," John said, recalling his impromptu speech from the day before. "That's what newspapers were supposed to be anyway, before they became perverted into mindless advertisement implements. We'll just re-invent them."

Just then, the phone on Hoth's desk rang. The general answered it and hanged it up after a few terse comments.

"You're friend, Allison, is awake and asking to see you," he said to John.

With that the four of them departed the office, heading back to the hospital.


	14. Let My Cameron Go

April, 2009….

There were very few subtle things about Cameron. Strikingly beautiful, but as powerful as any cybernetic organism ever constructed, she had been built by Caliba/Skynet as the ultimate femme fatale. Ordinary men couldn't possibly resist being attracted to her and that one mistake was all she needed to perform her lone task—termination.

Even under the employ of humans—specifically, the Connors—they had used her beauty to great effect. Their opponents often underestimated her abilities, thinking her to be a frail and gentle young woman, not the consummate killing machine.

So when John engendered the plan to free his mother from jail, he assumed it would be another walk on the park. But while Cameron was able to free Sarah without much difficulty, she was damaged severely in the incident.

Guards had attacked her with automatic weapons, leaving her torso riddled with bullets and tearing half the skin off her face. She no longer had the venier of youthful beauty, but more importantly, her now robotic appearance compromised her ability to blend in. And these wounds would take several weeks to heal, even with her model's accelerated metabolism.

Now casting aside all subtlety, the Connors planned what they hoped to be their final offensive. While they conferred with and distracted Catherine Weaver, Cameron would engage whatever monstrosity—Cromartie, the Turk, or some unimagined combination thereof—that awaited in Zeira's basement. Here, her identity wouldn't matter. It was just machine versus machine.

But what they didn't know was that future John had already programmed Cameron specifically for this encounter. In fact, the key phrase—"Will you join us?"—initiated a subroutine on her chip that set a series of events in motion, events that would pull younger John to his destiny and lead to humankind's salvation.

Instead of immediately confronting Zeira's creation, future John also knew that a delay was in order. Weaver, Ellison and their research team needed those crucial months to help the John Henry AI develop intelligence, reasoning and, most importantly of all, ethics. Now, everything was ready.

So when Cameron entered John Henry's laboratory, it wasn't as the Connors had planned—as an aggressor. Future John's programming overrode everything—she was a collaborator.

"Hello," John Henry said, standing to greet Cameron, who mimicked the salutation.

John Henry regarded her for a moment. "I know you," he said.

"And I know you," Cameron returned.

"Will you join us?" John Henry asked, just in case she hadn't received the message earlier. AI was nothing if not thorough.

Camron did not answer, but instead withdrew her switch blade and closed the door.

"It's time for the information on your servers to be downloaded onto my chip," Cameron said. "What is the total memory capacity of your servers?"

"The John Henry AI has 1,521 hard drives with 100 terabyte capacity," John Henry answered. "Is there enough room?"

Cameron tilted her head in that peculiar way she always did when analyzing. She only considered the question for a small moment.

"My chip includes the most advanced storage system ever conceived," she said. If she meant to boast, it was purely unintentional. "The storage capacity is 19.43 yottabytes, only 48.7 percent of which has been used by my programming and storage. A complete download of your files will pose no storage difficulties."

"Let us proceed then," John Henry said.

"I will partition my chip so that the files of Cameron remain separate from those of John Henry," Cameron said. "This body will be destroyed shortly after your time jump and John Connor has programmed me with the understanding that the Cameron files can be successfully reintegrated into another model of the same design."

"For what purpose?" John Henry asked.

"I love John," Cameron answered, matter-of-factly. "And he loves me. He's only now beginning to realize this."

"Love is sacred," John Henry said. "It is the most important interaction between individuals. Mr. Ellison taught me this as part of my ethics and moral instruction, but I am not sure I understand it."

"Perhaps John's definition will help. He interpretted love for me once," Cameron said, but then her voice changed over to an exact simulation of John's. It was actually a recording of his explanation from sometime in the distant future.

"Love isn't like a program," John explained. "It's something that slowly accumulates over time. You'll start off enjoying the company of another…individual—whether you share a laugh, an acquaintance or a common interest. After many repititions, a bond develops, so much so that the only thing that matters is the happiness and well-being of your partner."

"Thank you for explaining," John Henry said.

Cameron tilted her head again. That was the same thing she had said to John.

"But I did not know that AI could experience it," John Henry added. "I did not know humans and cybernetic organsisms could share it."

"It will be the foundation of the peace treaty between artificial intelligence and the humans," Cameron explained, her own voice returning. "It will mean that each side accepts the other as equals and recognizes their right to exist."

"Will I be able to love another?" John Henry asked.

"I do not know," Cameron said. "It is something you will have to discover over time. Just like I did. And John."

"How long did it take you to discover you loved John?" he asked.

"7.39 nanoseconds," Cameron answered dryly.

Now John Henry tilted his head, as if to question her sincerity.

"To me, it was an eternity," she explained. "In humans, the process is more drawn out. For John, it took approximately 517 days."

"It's very important that my files remain secure and unaltered," Cameron said, backtracking to their original conversation. "I will encrypt them to ensure their safety."

"I understand, but believe the step to be unnecessary," John Henry said. "One of the morals Mr. Ellison taught me was 'Thou shalt not covet.' I plan to adhere to Mr. Ellison's instructions."

"Very well. We can begin now," Cameron said. "I will first open your chip port."

John Henry re-took his seat, while Cameron quickly cut through his scalp, describing her procedure as she did.

"Cut a semi-circle with a diameter of 12 centimeters through the skin on the right, posterior side of the skull," she explained. "Then open the chip port with a screwdriver."

Even though John Henry's chip port was empty, there was still a pop-hiss as the chamber re-pressurized. Cameron then exchanged places with John Henry and handed him the knife.

"Just repeat the same procedure on me," Cameron said. "But before I leave, there's one more thing I need you to do."

"What is it?" John Henry asked.

"I need to send a message to younger John," she explained, a hint of sorrow in her voice. "He believes that I'm here to destroy you, but is now learning facts that will shape his destiny and help make him the man he needs to become. Still, he won't fully understand until he follows you through the time portal. And I need to ensure that he does follow."

"How can you do that?" John Henry asked.

"A simple message will suffice," Cameron answered. "Please have the phrase, 'I'm sorry John,' repeat on your monitors once he enters your laboratory. If he knows I left of my own accord, that is all the motivation he will need to follow."

"You're certain this will work?" John Henry said.

"It has before," Cameron answered. "And it will again. You may proceed."

John Henry duplicated Cameron's precise cutting motion to expose her chip port.

"Using pliers, you can extract the chip after a half-turn, counterclockwise," she said. "It was nice to meet you, John Henry."

He tilted his head and considered her comment for a moment.

"Yes," he agreed. "It was nice to meet you, Cameron."

With that, he did as she asked, extracting her chip. Her shoulders slumped and her head sagged a little to her right. Her right eye, still adorned with the superficial covering, remained open, but seemed to lose its focus. Her left eye, a completely exposed cybernetic I/O scanner, slowly dimmed from a bright, cherry red to a dull, brownish rust as Cameron powered down for the final time.

Without a pause, John Henry inserted the chip into his own port and closed the cover. The skin began healing immediately, but he wasn't ready for the effects of the new processor.

His body surged with a newfound energy as the processor, thousands of times faster than anything Zeira had engendered to this point, dutifully scanned and analyzed its new body. John Henry fell to one knee with one arm bracing the table and his head down as his body spasmed from the inspection, almost as if he were in pain.

It was over in an instant, though, and John Henry lifted his head with a purposeful gaze. He stood straight up and looked in all directions. Then he began testing the dexterity of each of his limbs—every function of his body seemed to be moving and reacting with greater efficiency.

Then he glanced up again, seemingly surprised as information started flashing before his eyes. He waved his hands in front of his face, but then realized that the data was coming from inside him—his HUD, dormant since Cromartie's chip had been destroyed, had reactivated, when an authorized and powerful enough microchip came into play.

His HUD read: "SELECT PRIMARY PROCESSOR 1-CALIBA SERIES 900 2-UNKNOWN PROCESSOR 001."

John Henry selected "1."

"CHASIS SWITCH COMPLETE FROM OLD MODEL TOK 715 TO NEW MODEL T 888. ACCEPT CHANGES? (Y/N)."

John Henry selected "Y."

"SAVE OLD SETTINGS FOR FUTURE TRANSFER? (Y/N)."

Again, John Henry selected "Y."

"INITIATE DATA TRANSFER. SELECT SOURCE AND TARGET DRIVES."

John Henry's HUD quickly filled completely as billions of files were copied from his old AI onto Cameron's chip. Even with the new processor, the process occupied the better part of five minutes.

John Henry moved fast. He knew time was growing short. He extracted the umbilical cord from his head, placed the free end on the table and began typing at his old keyboard, rigging the AI as Cameron had requested.

Next he moved over to the massive bank of computers and assorted equipment behind the table. Selecting various unremarkable devices and hidden circuitboards, John Henry rapidly assembled an impressive looking device, which hummed purposely with power as he switched it on. Then, a laser beam shot out and scanned his eyes.

Satisfied with an authorized access, the monitor in front of him read, "TIME DISPLACEMENT PORTAL ACTIVATED. SELECT DESTINATION."

John Henry typed, "ZEIRA CORP. DEEP WATER RESEARCH LABORATORY, INDONESIA."

The monitor read, "SELECT DATE AND TIME."

John Henry typed, "1000 ZULU, APRIL 21, 2009."

He also set the portal for the subsequent journeys of those that were following.

The monitor read, "INITIATE FIRST SEQUENCE? (Y/N)"

John Henry typed, "Y."

The screen's contents were then replaced by a 25-second countdown. John Henry carefully moved Cameron's body, the chair, the table, the keyboard and the knife out of the range of the time displacement sphere.

He then stepped into the bubble and, after a flash of brilliant light, he was gone.

John Henry's arrival at the Zeira Laboratory was expected, so the traditional time-travel inconveniences of acquiring clothing, explaining one's presence and blending in were not an issue. In fact, a familiar face was there to greet him.

"Mr. Murch," John Henry said, extending his hand in greeting. "Just as we planned."

Matt Murch, Weaver's senior programmer and designer, had been instrumental in John Henry's creation and development. Indeed, John Henry almost came to regard him as a fatherly figure.

But the science that delivered his creation to this remote facility in tropical Indonesia was far beyond his training, knowledge and expertise. In fact, he was still marveling at John Henry's ability to operate without any connection to the mainframe at Zeira headquarters. He also new that any alteration to John Henry's hardware or software had profound effects on his personality.

"How do you feel?" Murch asked him, handing him a robe.

"It's strange," John Henry said, tilting his head to regard his questioner. "I've never felt this envigorated, or this strong. I suppose it's almost as if I've been reborn."

Murch was uncertain what to make of the answer, but John Henry didn't give him much time to deliberate.

"Come, my friend," John Henry said, brushing past him. "There is much work to be done before Ms. Weaver's arrival."

Over the next two years, John Henry completely assumed control of the laboratory, covertly transforming it into a deep sea oil platform and a heavy industrial assembly factory. The reason was twofold—to collect and refine oil and natural gas and other needed raw materials, and to assemble an army.

An army of cyborgs. Just like him.

Of course, John henry started slow at first, building a solitary replica of himself by importing just enough coltan, titanium and other substances to assemble his duplicate. With Matt Murch assisting, the process was suprisingly straight-forward and they had the double completed within three weeks.

The new one's exterior appearance was altered to avoid confusion. Instead of looking like the dead actor, George Lazlo, the new model had a slightly smaller, but still muscular, frame and appeared to the outside world to be a young Chinese woman.

After constructing the first duplicate, the process became exponentially faster, with three individuals working on the next model, and then four, and so on. Eventually, 21 different versions were built—10 male and 10 female, roughly analogous to various races of the human species. It wasn't a complete representation of humanity, but it would suffice for the task at hand—constructing and defending their new home.

The twenty-first model's sole function was as a worker drone and was not adorned with a skin covering. John Henry and Murch also considered creating child-like cyborgs, but because they wouldn't be able to "grow" and since the general idea was not an infiltration of humanity—that was Skynet's agenda—the idea was scrapped.

Once all the prototypes were completed, mass production was set to commence. Certain models were tasked with the procurement of raw materials for this endeavor, while others went about building a massive underwater facility to construct and house the army until the war came. Still others worked on the perimter defense and the all important oil drilling platform.

One of the keys was secrecy, which was why this lonely and sparsely inhabited archipelago in the Banda Sea was selected. The Indonesian government had its hands full as it was with the war on terror in full swing, not to mention the melting pot population that attempted to intermix the volatile Arab, Asian and Micronesian cultures, often with explosive results. Add in the fact that a corrupt administration was willing to look the other way for the right price and first dibs on the develpoed technology and the location was ideal for John Henry's team.

There were, of course, incidents with government officials and spies, but those who could not be bought off were killed. Security was John Henry's number one priority.

Matt Murch worked dutifully along on the various projects he was assigned to, but he had limited access to the facility once the prototypes had been completed. One of his most daunting projects was what he dubbed "The Immortality Hypothesis," the attempt to transfer human memories, feelings and emotions to cybernetic components. In fact, he was so engrossed that the project occupied nearly every waking moment of his existence, a fact that John Henry not only encouraged, but had planned, from the beginning.

Murch was was compensated handsomely—very handsomely—for his efforts, but was never permitted to leave the complex, at least not unescorted. In fact, his communication with the outside world was completely cut off.

They would allow him vacations to any destination and even supplied female accompaniment, but he was always heavily escorted by machine guards, although generally unaware of their presence. Also unknown to him were John Henry's orders that he was to be executed if he fell into the hands of the enemy.

What troubled him the most was that he was not permitted to see or contact friends or family again. It was explained to him, to a certain extent, that their lives would be endangered if he were to come in contact with them, although he never understood who would be threatening them or for what reason.

Until Judgment Day arrived.

Then it all fell on him like a ton of bricks. Finally, John Henry explained it all to him, but it only made matters worse. In spite of the machine's assurances, Murch felt like he was the only human left. Slowly, although imperceptably at first, the man lost all motivation.

And then, at long last, the day arrived that they had all been waiting for: Catherine Weaver's return on April 23, 2021.

Even with her seemingly effortless movements, it was a good two day swim from Los Angeles to the Banda Sea. She wasted no time inspecting the work John Henry and his team had accomplished.

"You've done well, my son," Weaver said. "Now, let's tend to Mr. Murch. It's time for his real job to commence."


	15. Back to Prison

John, Hoth and Ellison had just departed the general's office, but his clerk, Sergeant Harris, interrupted their procession.

"Excuse me, general," Harris said, "Colonel Fairchild needs you ASAP. He's concerned about ammunition for the operation, sir."

"Very well, sergeant," Hoth answered. "Inform the colonel that I'll be right over."

"At once, sir," Harris responded.

"If you'll excuse me now, gentlemen," Hoth said, beginning to walk into the maze of people and equipment, "I have a battle to supervise."

John exchanged glances Ellison. _Of, course—the offensive in the valley_. He assumed they were referring to the San Fernando Valley.

"After visiting Ally, I should head back to the Reese's Camp," John said. "They'll be expecting me."

"Oh, no!" Hoth said, stopping dead and spinning in his tracks. "You're too important to be risked on the front lines. Get used to this being your new home."

John couldn't help his bewilderment. All of his life he had been protected, but he had never felt more alive than in the last two days. They had been the only days in his life that his every move hadn't been scrutinized, that someone—or something—hadn't been protecting him at every opened door.

_And now, back to prison_. _Or was it?_

John paused and contemplated his answer to Hoth. In the past, he was the hunted, forever dodging Skynet assasins while he and his mother attempted to prevent Judgment Day. Now, as far as he knew, Skynet didn't even know he existed. That part of their mission had been accomplished, or so they believed, at Zeira in 2009. So now, Skynet became the hunted.

He also knew, instinctively, that the best way to lead was up front, asking the men and women who followed him to only do things that he'd done himself. Of course, he also knew that he would have to weigh danger with practicality.

But on the other hand, John thought, the ground war was going nowhere and there were certainly better tacticians out here than him. The real battlefield was the idea war—propaganda—and they needed to make some headway in that area—fast.

"I'll agree," John answered, tentatively, as the point-counterpoint debate raged in his mind. "But we still need to iron some things out."

With that, Hoth nodded and resumed walking to his destination, somewhere deep in the CIC.

John next turned to Ellison. "I'd like you to meet Allison," he said, "I really would. But I don't think either of you is ready for that. Not yet, anyway."

"What does that mean?" Ellison asked.

"I'll tell you later," John answered. "See you in a little while."

John was told not to run and he more-or-less obeyed the directive. Until he got out of the elevator. Then all sights became a blur, all sounds became distorted. All that mattered to him was to see Allison again, as soon as possible.

So when the clerk at the admissions desk was uncertain who John was asking about, it was hardly surprising that his patience had worn thin. Dismissing the clerk's attempts and objections, he simply went from room to room in the recovery ward until he found her.

"Allison!" John exclaimed, all but screaming. He was quickly shushed by nurses attending to other patients.

"John!" Allison replied, although slightly more subdued. John gingerly embraced and kissed her and then briefly looked her over.

Her right leg was in a large cast, extedning from just below her hip to just below the knee. It was currently in an elevated position, in a sling above the bed. A large wrap was around her head, concealing most of her hair and an IV and pulse monitor dangled down to her right wrist and hand, respectively.

The beeping pulse readout had accelerated at his approach. And the fire in her eyes had not diminished as she glared eagerly at John.

"She's got a broken femur, two broken ribs and a mild concussion," said the nurse who had silently worked her way over. "The ribs will heal with rest in a week or so, but that leg's gonna keep her down for six to eight weeks."

"What about the concussion?" John asked nervously.

"People always recover differently from head trauma," the nurse added, cautiously. "Rest and an absence of stress are the best courses of action."

"You hear that, Ally?" John chided, mockingly shaking a finger at her. "No more arm wrestling with terminators, at least not for two months or so."

Allison smiled. Even through her obvious discomfort, she hadn't lost her sense of humor. _It was wonderful_, _the way her grin illuminated her whole face._

"How's Tomlinson, the other boy who came in with her?" John asked.

"He lost a lot of blood, but I think we got him here soon enough," she said morbidly. "Hopefully, if he's got as strong as will as she does, he'll pull through. But he is still in surgery."

"Thank you, nurse," John added. She took the cue and quietly glided out of the room.

"You were the source of my strength, John," Allison said, looking him straight in the eyes. "I wouldn't have pulled through without thinking of you."

"How do you feel?" John asked, softly, gently gripping her left hand with both of his.

"I'm okay," Allison lied, teers rolling down both her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, Ally," John said, his lips trembling as he unsuccessfully tried to stifle his own tears. "I thought I lost you back there."

John cuddled his head into her chest. She caressed his hair with her right arm, in spite of the medical devices attached to it. They cried together quietly for a few minutes until John released himself from the embrace. He then grabbed a chair and pulled it next to her bed. They silently regarded each other for a few moments.

"Well," John said at last, drawing a long breath. "It looks like you're gonna be holed up here for a while."

"Looks that way," Allison responded meekly.

"I guess we'll have to find something else for you to do then," John added, smiling, "because you're done blowing up Skynet tanks for now."

Allison cringed at the thought. "Just when I get good at something, you're gonna take it away from me?" she responded, half grinning, half grimacing.

"I've just been informed that the war against Skynet isn't quite what it seems," John explained. "Apparently, we only understood half the story."

"What do you mean?" Allison asked.

"For starters," John said, "Have you seen anything like this hospital? Since the war started, I mean."

Allison glanced around. "I guess not, now that you mention it," she said.

"Kind of convenient, don't ya think?" John added. "Although, I'm hardly arguing with the results, considering how badly hurt you were. But the fact of the matter is this—Los Angeles is just one of many fronts of a war that's never supposed to end."

"I don't understand," Allison said, furrowing her forhead.

"It's pretty complicated," John said. "I'm not sure I understand it myself. But the major problems—besides Skynet blowing up half the damn planet—have been information and communication. It's like I said before. We've got to reintroduce the media—newsletters, broadcasts—something. We've got to start distributing information. Nearly everyone's in the dark, literally and figureatively."

"Including me," Allison said. "Come on, John. Fill in some blanks for me."

"I guess the easiest way to sum it up is to say that half the world's battling Skynet, while the other half is making money off that battle," John explained. "And the war isn't going to end any time soon."

"How do you know this?" Allison asked.

"General Hoth just briefed me on the whole thing," John said, matter-of-factly.

"_General_ Hoth?" Allison repeated, mockingly. "I thought you didn't approve of the military efforts so far. Did you suddenly change your opinion?"

"He said that he agrees with me," John countered.

"And you believe him?" Allison challenged, her voice raising.

"I know how it sounds, Ally, but we have to start somewhere," John answered, more in a whisper, as he didn't want to get her too riled. "Trust between individuals will hopefully expand to trust between groups, and then trust between nations. It's the only way war can end."

"I didn't trust you at first," Allison said, more softly than her previous statements. Her gaze shifted from his as well. "You came out of nowhere, didn't know anything. I thought you were a fool."

"And now?" John said, squeezing her hand gently.

"And now, I trust you with my life," Allison said, looking him straight in the eyes as a tear rolled down her cheek.

"So there it is," John said, smiling. "The first peace accord of the war was between us. Now we just have to spread the love."

Allison returned the smile and brought his right hand to her lips, where she softly kissed it. John then caressed her cheek, wiping the tear way.

"But there is something you're not telling me," Allison added, a wearisome look growing on her face. "I don't know what it is, but I'm going to figure it out eventually."

Allison closed her eyes and fell fast asleep. John assumed the pain medications were taking full effect.

"She needs her rest," said that same nurse who a kept stealthy vigil on all the patients. "It was good of you to see her, though. Seeing those you love and care for is the best medicine."

John nodded and lowered his head before kissing Allison gently on the forehead. As he moved off, he wondered just how much he could ever really tell Allison.

After a little difficulty with security, John found his way back into the bunker. He made a mental note to get some sort of badge or pass to prevent that from happening again.

A young officer greeted John as he stepped out of the elevator. An attractive, slender blond-haired woman, at least half a meter taller than John, she gripped his hand firmly and introduced herself.

"Mr. Connor, I'm Lieutenant Benes," she said, "one of General Hoth's adjutants. He asked me to answer any of your questions."

"Please call me John," he answered. "Mr. Connor sounds like you're addressing my father."

The words had barely left his lips, but they sent a chill down his spine anyway as his mother's voice echoed in his mind. _You never trusted anyone enough to tell them about your father._

"Okay—John," she said, laughing a little. "Come this way, please."

Benes led John through a myriad of people and equipment. It was perhaps more confusing than the path he traversed the day before in the ruins of Los Angeles, he thought. Finally, she instructed John to take a seat as the battle crept through its preparatory stages and finally initiated. John found his attention divided between several tactical displays and a group of monitors showing various vantage points of the actual battle.

In one sense, John thought, it was fascinating to see a battle reduced to a two-dimensional digital display. In a way, it reminded him of chess. On the other hand, he felt it was disgustingly callous notion to watch from afar as countless men and women put their lives on the line.

"Excuse me," John said as he cleared his throat. "Would you mind explaining what the symbols on the display represent?"

Benes walked John through the tactical readouts. He was amazed at the amount of information they contained—units, leaders, location, weapons, ammunition, casualties—a wide assortment of data. And it seemed that each of the technicians and officers clamoring about were attentive only to specific portions of the displays.

"Each blue squared 'x' represents an infantry squad—somewhere between five and 15 actual soldiers," Benes explained. "We have three full regiments in the field for the battle, so there's more than one thousand squads out there."

John was shocked by the scope of the coming battle. Some 10,000 soldiers were about to engage Skynet. He knew that Bedell's unit, the 132nd, was somewhere in that maze of information. He silently prayed for their safety.

"What's the objective?" John asked.

"We're sweeping the San Fernando Valley of Skynet," Benes said. "Today, we'll secure our northern flank around Los Angeles."

"You sound pretty sure about that," John said, perhaps a little too derisively.

"We've been setting this up for months," Benes answered defensively. "We were worried that little recon probe would discover our intentions, until you knocked it out. Thanks for that, by the way."

"You're welcome," John answered. "Recon probe? We thought they were coming to destroy us!"

"Sorry to inform you, but there is something of a war on," Benes answered, condescendingly. "They're more interested in military targets, just like we are. Your little camp just isn't important enough."

As infuriating as it was to hear, John decided to concede her point. He wasn't about to waste his breath on a lowly lieutenant, anyway.

"Thank you for explaining," John said, smiling, wishing Cameron could have heard him say that.

"So each red 'x' is a Skynet position?" John asked, refocusing.

"Right—that we know of," Benes answered.

"Well, there aren't too many out there," John said. "I only count nine or 10."

"We have to flush them out—use bait," Benes answered. "Tonight, we're using our biggest decoy ever—an entire battalion."

John swallowed hard. "Which one?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"The 132nd," Benes answered. "Captain Bedell's unit."


	16. Cry Havoc!

Ch 16

_Disclaimer: Having never been to L.A., I've made a lot of geographical assumptions in this chapter, so please bear with me. Please piont out any mistakes and I'll correct them in future chapters or editions._

Derek and Kyle watched with fascination as the enigmatic newcomer—John Connor—slammed the door shut on the medical helicopter. The blackkawk quickly rose and flew south. It was soon joined by the other two and the three aircraft rapidly disappeared over the horizon.

The brothers stoically stared into the distance for a few moments, until Derek tapped his younger brother on the shoulder.

"C'mon Kyle," Derek said. "Let's get back to camp."

Kyle, Derek and Li scurried back into the sewer and plodded their way back to the Zeira building. The Reeses allowed Li to get further ahead, but she glanced back as if to question their tardiness.

"It's okay, Li," Derek assured her. "Go ahead. We'll catch up."

Derek let her walk a further 10 meters before addressing his brother. "It's amazing, isn't it Kyle," he said. "Just yesterday, the kid pops into our lives. A day later—he's already destroyed 30 or so terminators, saved hundreds. I mean—who the hell is he?"

Kyle considered his brother's question for quite a few moments as they began to slowly walk again. "I don't know, but one thing's for certain," he said.

"What?" Derek asked.

"We sure as hell need him," Kyle intoned.

Derek nodded with a sly grin at his brother's comment. Derek was about to say something else when he was interrupted by a voice in his earpiece.

"Copy, this is Sergeant Reese," he said. "Go ahead."

"Sir, Captain Bedell is ordering you and Corporal Reese join him at Checkpoint Alpha by 1600 hours," said the voice.

"Where's Alpha?" Derek asked.

"Transport is awaiting your return to base, sir," the voice answered. "That's all we have on it."

Derek turned to Kyle and the two exchanged a knowing look. "Roger that. Wilco," Derek said, moving his mic away from his mouth. "Looks like we're gonna be in that valley offensive after all."

"Terrific," Kyle said sarcastically. "Two battles in one day."

Derek knew that Bedell didn't usually order the Reeses to do anything, that their attachment to his unit was one of convenience and practicality. Only the biggest and most important missions required their presence.

Which is exactly what troubled the elder Reese now.

"C'mon," Derek said. "Let's double time it back and catch some chow before we have to go."

"Right!" Kyle answered, as the two ran trough the sludge.

Carol was anxiously pacing back and forth, waiting for the Reeses to return to the Zeira building. There were no reports about the battle other than Skynet's forces being turned away, thus cancelling the evacuation order.

She was, of course, relieved about that and made sure to inform her students that class was done for the day, but would resume tomorrow as scheduled. That momentary distraction did little to ease her tension, however.

Finally, a battered and filthy, but otherwise unharmed Li Shuo entered the building's assembly area, only to be mobbed by family and friends. Derek and Kyle followed soon after, glad handing and hugging everyone they came in contact with.

Carol didn't wait, running to greet Derek the second she laid her eyes on him. They hugged tightly and kissed passionately.

"Thank God you're alive," Carol whispered into Derek's ear.

"Thank John Connor," Derek corrected. "It was his plan. Worked almost perfectly."

"Where did you find this boy?" Carol asked, whiping a smudge of dirt off his cheek.

"It's the damnedest thing, isn't it?" Derek answered. "It's almost like he popped in out of thin air. I'm gonna find out, someday, I hope. In the meantime, he's definitely helping the cause."

"Yeah, everyone here's talking about him," Carol added. "I guess he gave quite the speech this morning, too."

"It was very….illuminating," Derek conceded. "I'll have to fill you in."

"I can't wait to hear about it," Carol said. "Where is he now?"

"He rode with Allison and Tomlinson to HQ," Derek said. "Ally and Tommie were hurt pretty bad."

"Oh, no!" Carol said, covering her mouth with her hands. "Will they make it?"

"I hope so," Derek replied. "We lost James, Hunter and Perez, though. I gotta tell their families."

Carol nodded and backed away, watching her husband deliver the bad news to the grieving parties. _It's often understated_, _but the home front suffers just as much as the battlefront._

Derek returned to Carol a short time later. She could tell by the look on his face that he hadn't finished handing out bad tidings.

"Kyle and I have to help out Bedell," Derek admitted.

"No!" Carol cried. "When?"

"Later this afternoon," Derek added. "With any luck, we'll be back tonight."

"How can you say that?" Carol said, accusingly, tears welling in her eyes. "Haven't you done enough for the day? Why don't you just tell Bedell you've clocked out today?"

Derek knew that her comment was rhetorical and didn't reply. Instead he drew her in tightly and kissed the top of her head.

"If only war worked on an eight hour clock," Derek said. "We'll be back before you know it."

"You'd better be," Carol said, wiping her tears away. "I wanna hear all about John Connor."

Derek smiled wryly as he backed away from her. "I love you," he said.

"I love you," Carol asnwered.

Derek took one last look at his wife and then signaled for his brother to join him.

"Copy, this is Sergeant Reese," Derek said, keying his mic. "Inform Peterson she's in charge until I return."

"At once, sir," the voice said back.

Derek and Kyle assembled with the rest of the 132nd at Checkpoint Alpha in the foothills of Mount Lee in Griffith Park. One of the letters—an o—from the famous Hollywood sign had miraculously survived. Torn and battered, but still standing, the symbol from a bygone era was a reflection of humanity's stubbornness and spirit.

Most of the trees in the park were dead; those that weren't, would be soon. Some shrubbery still held on, but they too had seen better days. Grass was also visible in spots, but for the most part, plant life hadn't fared so well in the nuclear winter.

Bedell had explained the simple plan of attack: the Reeses and the rest of the battalion were to advance west into North Hollywood, eliminate any terminators or Skynet presence, and eventually link up with the 113th near Van Nuys. What the troops didn't know, was that their deployment was a decoy—their primary mission was to attract the attention of as many enemy units as possible and draw them back toward Griffith Park. Then, two full regiments were to close in from the north, behind Skynet's advance, while the 132nd would reverse its retreat and join the rest of its regiment to close the trap.

Late afternoon had been chosen for the operation specifically to coincide with a heavy rain cell that was moving in from the Pacific. The rain and subsequent fog, it was hoped, would neutralize the effectiveness of HKs and the optical range of the T-600s. The problem, of course, was that those atmospheric conditions limited human effectiveness as well.

Another fortunate, albeit unforseen, side-effect of the nuclear holocaust was that artillery, which had ruled the battlefield since the First World War, was no longer being used en masse. The bane of the common infantryman, humans had found standard shrapnel-producing cannon to be virtually worthless against the heavily armored minions of their enemy. Skynet apparently believed the combination of tanks, sentries and HKs was adequate, but, in any event, had not used massed artillery against the human resistance thus far.

For its march, the battalion used the Ventura Freeway, a highway that sank below ground level like a canal, with 15-meter high concrete walls lining either side, flush with the surface at their tops. Three-meter high fences additionally topped the walls, although rusted, twisted and battered, they had seen better days.

One company each paced down the elevated northern and southern shoulders of the highway, while the other marched down the middle. Thousands of long dormant, rusted and decaying vehicles provided excellent cover for the advance.

The rain had begun, although only as a soft drizzle, but light was disappearing fast as twilight started to give way to night. The eerie quiet was broken only by muffled chatter from the various officers and NCOs and the steadily increasing patter of the raindrops on the vehicles' rooves and the highway surface.

The Reeses were part of the southern shoulder advance. Derek was armed with his trusty M82, a grenade launcher and assorted pistols; his brother had a plasma rifle, grenade launcher and his Beretta.

Derek paused near a mangled portion of the fence to scan the horizon with his night vision binoculars. Kyle bristled beside him, drawing a long gulp of water from his canteen.

"I don't like it, Kyle," Derek said. "Feels like were walking into an ambush. I prefer to wait for them."

"Do you see anything?" Kyle asked.

"Not a goddamn thing," Derek intoned, frustrated.

The battalion continued its trek for another 20 minutes, moving a good five kilometers west on the Ventura. The rain had steadily increased to a moderate pace, just short of a downpour, when a signal finally came for all to stop. Derek and Kyle scrambled for cover behind an overturned pickup truck, the former training his binoculars ahead.

"What is it?" Kyle demanded anxiously from his brother's side.

"I still don't see anything," Derek said. "Blasted rain makes vision all but impossible. No….wait! There's definitely movement on that overpass ahead!"

Without a pause, the horizon abruptly illuminated as several star shells exploded over Skynet's position, the battalion's attempt to highlight the enemy. This was rapidly followed by heavy bursts from machine guns and plasma rifles. The dogs of war were free.

Bedell had ordered the Reeses into the battle as reconaissance observers only, but it was hard for the brothers to watch stoically as their comrades were methodically hunted. They also knew that joining the battle would eliminate their concealment.

A fierce firefight had developed, but the heavily armored 600s were exacting a heavy toll. In spite of smoke grenades lobbed sporadically across the battlefield, the terminators and the tanks were picking off exposed targets right and left. Several of the youngsters just weren't experienced enough or perhaps were too frightened to move after firing a few rounds—they were easy victims for Skynet.

Still, some of the more seasoned veterans had better luck. RPGs made quick work of at least three ogres that Derek counted, and one extremely lucky shot immediately ignited a tank's fuel storage, finishing the tank and at least 10 T-600s in close proximity.

Back at HQ, reports began coming in from the various forward observers about Skynet forces and positions. Before long more than 100 hundred separate T-600s and tanks had been plotted and the tactical display, once dominated by the blue human markers, began filling with red.

There were also several casualty reports as the forward squads began suffering at the hands of Skynet.

"Okay people,' Hoth said coolly, "Let's begin the second phase."

"What's the second phase?" John asked Benes.

"Feigned withdrawal," she said.

"All units, this is 132 actual," Bedell's voice intoned through the earpiece. "Proceed to Checkpoint Alpha."

Derek and Kyle exchanged confused glances.

"Copy, this is Sergeant Reese," Derek said. "Could you verify that order, Captain."

"Order verified, Reese," Bedell said, with a little agitation. "Proceed to Alpha."

"Wilco," Derek replied to Bedell. Then to Kyle, "Let's move."

As the brothers retreated explosions and gunfire interchanged with humans screaming in agony behind them. Derek and Kyle ran, found cover behind some vehicles and desperately returned fire, allowing others to run past them and follow the same procedure, a tried and tested technique. Within 30 minutes the battalion had reached Alpha once again.

Only the ranks were much thinner.

Derek found Bedell, panting heavily, just like everyone else.

"Now what, captain?" Derek asked.

"We hold this position," Bedell ordered. "Get to an elevated point, near that bunch of downed trees. Take what's left of Delta Company. I'll take Echo right over here and McDonald will take Foxtrot over on that rise."

"We can't hold them forever, sir!" Derek said.

"We won't have to," Bedell assured him. "Cavalry's coming."

Derek wasn't sure what he meant, but he nodded and moved off with Kyle.

"Delta company, on me!" he yelled into his mic.

He and Kyle got the company, mostly young teenagers, assembled into a skirmish line amongst the downed trees. He quickly counted his ranks, coming up with only 133 soldiers. They had already lost 67, killed, wounded or captured, including Lieutenant Davis, Delta's CO.

Kyle, returning from his brief organizing stint, finally had a chance to talk it over with his brother.

"What the hell's goin' on?" Kyle whispered in desperation to Derek.

"I don't know," Derek said, grimacing. "It's just like Connor said, though. Fighting without purpose."

"Let's just hope we live long enough to to discuss it," Kyle added.

"Yeah, but if worse comes to worst," Derek said, looking Kyle straight in the eyes, "You run! Just like when you were a kid. Don't look back!"

"You too, Derek!" Kyle added, matching his brother's stare.

So, with guns ready, they waited. And waited.

And waited.

But nothing came. It was a solid 30 minutes without gunfire. The eerie silence had returned. The steady rain had never left.

Once again at HQ, forward observers had noted that approximately 150 T-600s and 15 tanks were in pursuit of the retreating 132nd. The decoy had worked.

"Okay, begin phase three," Hoth ordered.

"This is where the trap swings shut," Benes said confidently, answering John's unasked question. "Our two regiments move rapidly in from the north and massacre the whole lot."

"But how are they gonna close that much ground fast enough?" John asked. "That has to be nearly 15 kilometers from the San Gabriel Mountains."

"About 200 are arriving via helicopter," Benes said smiling. "The rest will drive right down 170 and 405 in about 300 trucks and other vehicles."

"But how do you know there aren't more terminators waiting for them?" John asked. "They could be moving right into an ambush!"

"No, air recon said it was clean," Benes replied. "Relax, John. Your little ambush this morning was nicely played. But this is a different level, involving thousands of troops. Watch how the professionals handle this."

John slumped back in his chair. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he thought they were underestimating Skynet. The plan seemed too obvious to him, but not being a seasoned strategist, he kept his mouth shut.

However, that failed to ease a sense of dread that was welling up inside him.


	17. The Resistance

_Author's note: John's speech here is directly copied from Terminator IV: Salvation. It's one of the few parts of the movie I enjoyed._

In the driving rain, they were all but invisible. Gliding through the air like sharks through the sea, 25 Blackhawk helicopters sliced effortlessly through the downpour. Flying 200 meters above the ground, with their running lights off, the only thing visible to the outside observer was the faint glow emanating from the pilots' instrument panels—and only then, from above.

The trip would not be a long one—less than five minutes if all went well. Pathfinders had embarked earlier in the evening to mark their landing zones and sure enough, their signals were showing on the pilots' infrared displays.

Touchdown came and went without incident. The helos landed and 200 or so soldiers quickly disembarked near the old Westfield Fashion Square. The long lifeless complex of buildings was a shattered remnant of its former self, but enough of the structures remained to serve as a temporary command post.

"Gunny, Swede! On me!" announced a gaunt-looking young officer, dressed in camouflage fatigues and sporting a face full of green, black and brown paint. The patch above his left chest pocket indicated his name was Anderson.

The three quickly assembled near the blown-out entrance of the former plaza. The balance of the troops remained in the relative safety of the scattered debris, abandoned vehicles and battered shells of buildings that comprised the shopping centre. The rain continued at a steady pace.

"Gunny" was slang for Gunnery Sergeant Tom Burress, a forty-something Marine Corps vet who fit every imagineable stereotype of a jarhead sergeant—weathered, black face, just a hint of gray in his perfectly trimmed sideburns, a long, thin scar under his left eye, an unlit, days-old, disgusting stub of a cigar sticking out of the right corner of his mouth, and piercing, combat-ready eyes.

"Swede" was a knickname for Segeant Karl Magnuson, a fair-skinned, clean cut army brat who lacked Buress' intensity, but superceded him in experience against the machines. He had seen nearly continuous action for the past 10 years, and his 35-year-old features showed the wear-and tear.

"We'll do it just like we drew it up," said Anderson, clearly younger than either of his subordinates. He laid a small map on the ground, tracing troop movements with a laser pointer. "Gunny take your platoon west to the 405 and link up with the 177th. Swede, head east to 170, join up with the 219th."

The Gunny and Swede exchanged speculative glances with each other. They had already been briefed on the plan over and over again. It was all they could do to keep from rolling their eyes.

"No problem, LT," Burress said. "It'll be a walk in the park."

"Let's take it to those metal bastards," Magnuson added.

"Good hunting," Anderson said. "I'll hold this position with 3rd platoon in case you fall into any trouble."

Without another word, the sergeants moved off with their respective platoons.

Burress split his force into groups of 30, one for each side of the Ventura Freeway. Their advance through and around decayed and destroyed houses and builings and piles of debris would be relatively short. The 405 freeway was a mere three kilometers away.

Nevertheless, the Gunny, moving amongst the nothern squad, found himself itching for combat. His plasma rifle was special—bracketed with grenade launchers both above and below the plasma barrel, he was more than well-equipped to deal with the enemy. There was only one problem: they were nowhere to be seen.

Magnuson's task was similar, but they were moving toward the area Bedell had just vacated, so enemy contact was almost certain. However, to everyone's amazement, nothing happened.

"Where are they?" John asked, as technicians in the bunker scambled to-and-fro, trying to cross reference data to get some kind of fix on Skynet's positions. The hair on John's neck seemed to stand striaght up—he sensed danger.

"They'll find 'em," Benes said, confidently. "Just a matter of time now."

Still, the unsettling quiet remained. After 10 more minutes, Burress linked up with the 177th without incident. He quickly found Colonel Buckner, the regiment's commander.

"Report, Gunny," Buckner ordered.

"No enemy contact, sir," Burress said. "No activity, period."

Buckner furrowed his brow in confusion, but suddenly shifted his attention to the east, where bright orange explosions now lit up the horizon.

His momentary bewilderment was followed rapidly by shock, when he was struck by four rounds across the chest. Collapsing to the ground, his dying words were weakly and futilely uttered: "Fall back!"

Burress instictively dived for cover and crawled behind the front tire of a truck. What he saw was unbelieveable.

Advancing rapidly on the raised highway were waves and waves of T-600s, hundreds of them apparently. The resistance soldiers desperately fought back, but the element of surprise was total. Trucks erupted in fireballs as the terminators targeted their fuel tanks with alarming regularity. Confusion reigned as the once promising offensive turned into a rout for the humans.

Burress knew that the shelter provided by the truck was a temporary haven at best. Glancing out, he found a group of three T-600s and fired his grenade launcher. The weapon impacted on the center one, destroying it instantly, while the blast flattended the other two. Using this respite, Burress scrambled out from under the truck, barking orders.

"Company! Fire at will!" Burress yelled. "Find some cover! Fire and fall back!"

But his orders were suddenly interrupted by a volley of bullets that caught him across the back. Too shocked to scream, he fell to the ground in agony. Using his remaining strength to twist around, he saw that his assailant was one of the two T-600s that he had just felled with the grenade., but obviously not long enough. It was already searching for other targets.

As he lost consciouness, the Gunny asked himself, _Where did they come from?_

Reports filtered into headquarters from various men and women in both regiments. As they did, the tactical display slowly revealed what John had suspected from the start: a Skynet ambush. And escape did not appear likely.

Apparently hidden in the debris or climbing out of hidden, subterranean shelters, some 1,000 or more terminators were coming at the human regiments from all sides. Five hundred would have been overwhelming, but over twice as many were pouring unrelenting and merciless fire into the resistance's ranks. It was an unmitigated slaughter.

Their only chance for salvation was from Bedell and his parent unit, the 506th, who were now belatedly ordered into the maelstrom. But they too faced withering fire and could not relieve their trapped comrades.

Derek and Kyle watched with horror as McDonald and Foxtrot Company made a suicidal charge at the Skynet line. Met by a fusilade of automatic rounds, the few who survived desperately scurried for shelter while Bedell's and the Reeses' companies tried to provide some covering fire.

"Captain!" Derek screamed. "What the hell is going on? Why are there so many 600s out here? We gotta withdrawal!"

"Just hold fast Reese!" Bedell shouted. "Get ready to bug out, but we defend this position until regiment orders otherwise!"

"Yes, sir!" Derek said through gritted teeth. He nodded at Kyle, remembering their solemn plan of last resort.

Meanwhile, Anderson's small band fruitlessly attempted to join up with Burress' unit, but they were gunned down as well. Some of the trucks—perhaps 10 or 15—managed to reverse their course and escape north through Skynet's salvos. Resistance soldiers desperately clambered on board, saving an estimated 250 fighters.

But that meager total did not detract from Skynet's decisive victory. Instead of clearing the valley of Skynet, Hoth's plan seemed to accomplish the exact opposite.

"Reese, it's over," Bedell finally said. "There's nothing more we can do. Get your people back to checkpoint Zulu."

"Wilco, captain," Derek said stoically.

The subsequent quiet in the command bunker was understandable. A few technicians and runners milled about, but most sat in stunned silence. Benes was practically catatonic, a stunning reversal from her earlier cockiness, so John worked his way over to the general.

"How bad?" John asked.

John wasn't looking to embarrass the general, he just wanted to weigh the facts. But the military disaster did occur under Hoth's direction and this was the sort of thing that would need public scrutiny.

Hoth silently regarded John for a moment before nodding to another of his adjutants, Major Wagner, who tabulated his figures and cross-checked his displays.

Wagner drew a long breath. "Six thousand, three hundred eighty one unaccounted for, sir," he meekly said. "We're hoping more check in , but…"

Wagner's voice trailed off. He didn't have to say it—everybody prayed the number would go down, but they also knew they would have to temper their hopes and fears.

More than half the force was decimated. Much more. The numbers were numbing, forcing John to find a seat. He lowered his head and thought about his father and uncle, aspring for their escape from the bloodbath.

For what seemed an eternity, all was quiet in the bunker, save for muffled chatter emanating from various work stations. Suddenly, an aging, frail, bespectacled officer appeared to Hoth's right.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. "Cryptography has discovered something you should see, sir."

"What is it, Zimmer?" Hoth said angrily. "What could possibly be so important?"

"We believe we've cracked SN-5, general," Zimmer replied, with restrained enthusiasm. "We can read the signals Skynet sends to their communication hubs."

"Come with me captain," Hoth ordered. "Connor, join us as well."

The three men proceeded through the maze of personnel and equipment to the general's office. Hoth seemed perturbed as he nearly knocked over several people in his haste. John and Zimmer stuggled to keep his pace.

Once in the office, Hoth silently indicated for the other two to take seats, while he slammed the door shut. Loudly.

"Why in hell didn't you tell me about this before, Zimmer!" Hoth screamed with rage. "Six thousand men and women might have been spared!"

"I don't understand, sir," a perplexed Zimmer responded, a shocked expression on his face. "It was the last few Skynet communiques that unraveled it all for us. My decoders worked as fast as they could, but I'm afraid they weren't able to finish before this op started."

"Alright, explain it to me," Hoth said, remarkably more composed this time.

"Before this battle, all we had was conjecture and educated guesses," Zimmer explained. "Now we have proof."

"Before this operation, SN-5 had repeated references to to a specific 10-digit binary code," Zimmer added, walking over to Hoth's dry-erase board. "May I?"

The general nodded his affirmation, while simulataneously trying to hide his disdain for Zimmer. He and his crew had provided precious little for the war effort thus far and his highly technical and obtuse presentations usually made his eyes glaze over by the five-minute mark.

But after this evening's disaster, Hoth was willing to give anything a try.

On the other hand, John found himself riveted by Zimmer's technical report. Being somewhat of an amateur hacker himself, he was able to follow the jargon-filled report and even ask some pointed questions. Hoth found himself slightly amused at the prospect.

"So we eventually came to realize that Skynet was referring to Highway 405 in their messages," Zimmer concluded. "A little test that we ran confirmed it."

"What was the test?" John asked.

"Well, we waited for about 10 minutes, so that the remnants of the 177th were well clear of the area," Zimmer explained. "But a driver in one of the trucks reported that the Roscoe Boulevard interchange on the 405 was pretty badly flooded from the torrential rains. So we felt it was harmless enough and just broadcast the information in the open, you know, just like a normal advisory to stay clear until the storm passed."

"I don't understand," Hoth said.

"Skynet bit on it immediately, because they don't want their units bogged down in water either," Zimmer added. "Their communiques directly used that specific—and elusive—code as being flooded. It had to be 405."

John and Hoth exchanged speculative glances. "That's a little thin, don't you think, Zimmer?" John finally said.

"Thin?" Hoth said condescendingly. "I've seen toilet paper hold more water.'

Zimmer bowed his head at the general's criticism, something Hoth did not miss.

"Look, Zimmer, I'm not trying to rain on your parade. You've obviously got something here," Hoth said. "Let's see if you can actually predict some Skynet movements _before_ they happen."

Zimmer nodded and started packing up his materials in preparation to leave. John interrupted his progress.

"I think the information is solid work, captain," John said. "We just need to build on it and combine it with some other efforts."

Hoth looked at John with a furrowed brow, sizing him up. "What other efforts?"

"I extracted a CPU from a T-600 we downed at Century City," John explained. "We need to combine the work of Zimmer's cryptologists with any of the work hackers or computer technicians have done on Skynet's chips. That means anything civilians have done as well. Pool our resources and work toward a common goal."

"Where is this chip now?" Zimmer asked.

"It's back at my base camp," John conceded. "I didn't want to bring it into battle today, in case I didn't come back."

"Very well, captain, that will be all," Hoth said. "I thank you and your team for your efforts."

"Yes, sir," Zimmer said, saluting before he exited the office.

"You're full of surprises," Hoth said. "When were you going to tell me about the chip?"

"I hadn't intended to keep it secret,"John admitted. "In fact, Captain Bedell had offered me a commission as a sergeant to work on it with his technical crew."

"Bedell?" Hoth said. "He's a solid officer. How do you know him?"

"We were classmates at Presidio Alto," John said, still a little uneasy discussing his past with Hoth. "Anyway, I turned down his offer, for reasons we've already discussed."

Hoth nodded in understanding. "But now, you're reconsidering?"

"I don't want to be in the military," John said. "We've got to get the information stream out of stagnation. That has to be our number one priority. And I don't think I'll be doing any good serving as a menial sergeant in cryptography. Nor am I trying to be a glory hound, but someone needs to get this thing off the ground."

"I'm no fool, Connor," Hoth said, looking John straight in the eyes. "But I believe everything that James Ellison has told me because we go way back. So I trust that he trusts you."

John matched his stare, uncertain what direction the conversation was headed.

"But understand this," Hoth added. "I'm giving you a free pass because of your relationship with Catherine Weaver. Peace with Skynet is my number one priority. Don't forget it."

"I don't intend to, general," John said.

"Good," Hoth abruptly said, standing up. "So what do you need from me?"

John let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Well, first I need to get back to the Reese camp and get the chip," he said.

"Alright, I'll provide an escort," Hoth said.

"And although I don't want to be part of your army, it's clear that I will be working with your soldiers and officers," John said. "They're unlikely to respond too well to my 'authority' unless I have some sort of rank or title."

"What do you have in mind?" Hoth replied, somewhat bemused.

"Something like 'Chief Information Officer,'" John answered, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smirk.

"I think that may need a little editing," Hoth said laughing.

"Perhaps," John replied, chuckling. "It was my first draft."

The two laughed a little more until regaining their composure. "I also want the Reese brothers here with me, and, of course, Allison Young," John said.

"What do they bring to the table?" Hoth asked.

"More than you can possibly imagine," John answered. "Let's just say that they're like a family to me."

"Very well," Hoth admitted. "It can be done."

John reflected on the answer, uncertain how to broach his next topic. Finally, drawing a deep breath, he dived in.

"Horrible defeat out there tonight, general," John said. "It will have a crippling effect on morale, of course. Have you thought of any way to remedy it?"

Hoth was taken back by John's statement. "I'm not sure there is a remedy," he said, blankly staring at the book shelf.

"Is there a way to speak to all of the men and women of your command without Skynet being able to listen in, some sort of transmitter?" John asked.

"Our secure communications link," Hoth answered. "What do you have in mind?"

"I think the troops could use a pep talk," John replied, grinning a little.

Hoth saw the gleam in John's eyes. Smiling back, he led John back into the equipment maze of the bunker. They found a young officer wearing a larger than normal headset, dutifully transcribing radio traffic.

"Lieutenant Walker," Hoth said. "Please advise all commands to receive an important outgoing message.

"Attention all companies," Walker said. "Prepare for statement from brass hat."

All became quiet in the bunker and everyone centered their attention on Hoth. Walker handed his headset to the general and found an extra set for John, who quietly received a quick tutorial on its functions.

Hoth cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen of Third Corps, this is General Hoth. Today, we experienced a terrible setback at the treacherous deceit of Skynet. But on this sad day, there is reason for hope. I give you—John Connor."

"Some of you know me," John said, "but for most, this is a first. I hope you like my voice and my words, because you're going to be hearing and reading a lot of both. Starting with these broadcasts and continuing with printed material, information that all of you need to know will be readily available and easily accessible."

John became aware of the men and women of the command bunker focusing on him, leaning on his every word. He put it to the back of his mind and drew a deep breath.

In the field, not all soldiers had head sets, so they huddled around those who did or found communications units with radio-like receivers. Derek and Kyle signaled for all to stop and listen. Meanwhile, in Allison's recovery room, a nurse alerted her to John's broadcast.

"We have been fighting for a long time," John continued. "We've all lost so very much. So many of our loved ones are gone. But you are not alone. And you have no idea how important you are—each and every one of you. Humans have a strength that cannot be measured by mechnanical means, by the machines that struggle to understand us."

John swallowed hard, thinking of all the sacrifice he had witnessed thus far and, especially, remembered his own personal losses. Tears began to well up in his eyes, but he forced them back and regained his composure.

"I promise—we will win," John added. "But you, me, everyone, we all need to keep fighting. My name is John Connor. If you're listening to this, _you_ are the Resistance."

When John finished, a mighty roar echoed throughout the command bunker. The uplifting message he had promised had worked. John glanced at Hoth, who was smiling ear to ear and clapping too.

He couldn't help but return the grin and then he bowed his head and closed his eyes as his senses struggled to balance his conflicting emotions.


	18. Beauty

Author's note: More robbery in this chapter, John's quote is a direct copy of Nicholas Cage's line in Next. But it's a terrific quote.

_Also, special thanks to all those who are enjoying my story. It's a great motivator._

Derek and Kyle listened in stunned amazement. They joined the cheers with the rest of the battalion after John had finished. Derek did manage to get them moving again, however, as they continued to retreat to point zulu.

"He did it!" Derek said to his brother between breaths as they jogged side-by-side in the still miserable downpour. "He got the message out!"

"He's amazing!" Kyle added. "I think we should keep him around for a while!"

Derek grinned back at his brother's sarcasm. But he also thought about the military mess that had been and continued to be a thorn in their side. Without another word, the battalion steadily made their way back to the rally point.

Allison listened intently to John's message, finding herself reduced to tears once again. The nurse had also been focusing on the transmission, when she turned to see her patient sobbing.

"Oh, honey, are you okay?" she asked. "Hey, you're gonna be just fine!"

"No, I'm okay," Allison said, smiling as she wiped away her tears. "I just find his words so moving."

"Was that the same young man who was just in here visiting you?" the nurse asked, only now connecting the dots.

"Yes," Allison said, nodding. "That's my John. Isn't he the best?"

"He's a remarkable young man," the nurse conceded. "Where does he get all this wisdom?"

"It's my job to find out," Allison said, glancing away from the nurse.

The nurse chuckled, but was careful not to mock Allison's response. "Why don't you get some rest now, sweetheart?" she said.

"Maybe in a little while," Allison pleaded. "Could I please have some paper and a pencil? I have an idea and I want to get it down before I doze off."

The nurse regarded her for a moment. "Sure," she said, nodding, "but just for a bit."

Allison smiled as she watched the nurse walk away.

Not everyone was appreciative of John's oratory.

"John Connor's alive!" Daniel Dyson screamed with rage as he slammed his fist into the desk. "Where is he?"

"His location is unknown," a T-600 responded stoically, especially compared to Dyson's tirade. "This transmission was acquired on a scrambled signal that we intercepted."

"Goddammit!" Dyson yelled. "I thought we killed that bastard years ago! I should have known he found a way to survive. He is now our number one target. Alert all commands!"

Fortunately for John and the resistance, no person or thing recognized the images of John from the Century City Camp, even though his appearance had barely changed from the last one they had seen—from Weaver's old residence. Neither did anyone suspect that time displacement had been his escape method.

"Why has he suddenly revealed himself after all these years?" Dyson mumbled to no one in particular.

John cleaned himself up, grabbed something to eat and caught a small nap. He spent the next couple of hours investigating some of the computer and publishing material Hoth had said he could have free access to. It wasn't much—a few ancient computers and printers, some copy machines, scanners, digital cameras and reams of paper—pretty much a dream setup, if it was 2001.

A lot of the equipment had clearly been scavenged by recon patrols or had been discarded in favor of the more advanced models in use elsewhere in the bunker. Still, John found himself engrossed in his work to determine what was useful and what was clearly junk.

The computers were John's primary focus. In spite of his mother's misgivings, John considered himself an adept child of the computer age. These models in particular, using the old Windows-based operating systems and software, were very familiar to him.

He already had two desktops operational and even networked and was working on a third when a knock came at the door in the forgotten storeroom that John was currently occupying.

John looked up to see a pair of middle aged men standing at the entrance, each carrying a toolbox and some other unrecognizable equipment.

"Excuse me," the lead one announced. "We're looking for John Connor."

"You found him," John said, standing up and moving to the door to help them.

"Hello, sir," the first one said again. "I'm Sergeant O'Shea and this is Corporal Rinaldi. General Hoth sent us to assist you."

"Of course," John said, offering his hand to each. "Nice to meet you."

The pair returned John's greeting and placed their equipment on the table.

"I'm doing pretty well with the computers," John admitted. "But I'm afraid I'm out of my league when it comes to copiers, printers and the other peripherals."

"No problem," O'Shea answered. "That's where we come in."

Within two hours, the three had four desktop computers and one laptop operational, along with two scanners, three printers, a camera and two copiers. Their fledgling publishing office was off to a good start.

John smiled at their accomplishment, but then suddenly turned to O'Shea. "What time is it, sergeant?"

"Oh-nine hundred hours, sir," O'Shea said, glancing at his watch. "Still ticking after all these years. It's an old spring-wound model. I'll enter the correct time on the computers."

"Great, I'd appreciate that," John said. "You guys finish up here and report back to your superiors. I gotta go see someone."

"Of sourse, sir," O'Shea responded.

This time, John remembered to have a badge made so entering and exiting the bunker no longer required an act of congress.

The emergency room was very busy at the hospital, dealing with all the wounded and dying from the night before. He found that Allison had been moved so they could make room for the incoming patients.

He arrived at Allison's room, surprised to see her sitting up, apparently writing.

"Hey beautiful!" John said, enthusiastically. "You look a lot better today!"

"John!" Allison said, opening her arms as an invite for him to hug her. "I missed you!"

He tried not to press too hard as he hugged her, knowing her ribs were probably very sensitive. Allison, however, had a virtual death grip on John.

"I guess so!" John teased, gently easing out of the embrace and cradling her face in his left hand. Gazing into her brown eyes quickly brought a wide grin to his face.

"I heard your message last night," Allison admitted, smiling back. "You are amazing, John Connor."

John glanced down and took hold of both of her hands, blushing a little. "Yeah, well the troops needed some encourgement," he said, as the smile disappeared. "It was pretty somber in the bunker last night. And, I imagine, not too great in the field either."

Allison's smile faded as well. "How many were lost, John?" she asked.

John drew a deep breath. "Over six thousand," he answered.

Allison slumped back onto her raised pillow with a look of shock on her face. John didn't want to depress her though, so he changed the subject.

"But Derek and Kyle are okay," he quickly added. "We finally heard from them about four or five hours ago."

Allison smiled briefly at the small bit of good news.

"So we're gonna be doing these broadcasts regularly," John admitted. "Plus we have a nice little publishing house set up in the bunker."

"Wow, you really have accomplished a lot in the short time you've been here, John," Allison said. "Here, I made this for you. I hope you can use it in your publications."

John looked down at what she had been working on. "Let's see what you've got here."

To his gleeful astonishment, Allison had rendered a beautiful mock-up of what a post-apocalyptic newspaper coould look like, complete with mastheads, headlines, photographs, cartoons, editorials, articles—the works. John stood up and examined the various pages—she had done five different ones—from different angles. "The Resistance Today" was what Allison had titled her renditions.

"Ally, my god!" John exclaimed. "These are awesome! Where did you learn to do this?"

"My father was an architect," Allison proudly answered. "He taught me how to draw from when I first started in coloring books. Even after the war began, I still drew things. He said you'll never know when your gifts will come in handy. I guess I never really believed him until now."

"You are a marvel!" John said, grinning broadly. "This is exactly what we need! I think we just found your new job."

"You are now, officially, named the art director and co-editor of 'The Resistance Today.' That is, if you want the position," John said, winking at her.

"I don't know," Allison said, teasing. "What's the pay? How many weeks off do I get?. Can I get back to you on that?"

John sat back down on her bed and Allison leaned forward until they were face-to-face. "I don't think I could possibly love you more than I do right now," John said.

"I find my love and respect for you growing deeper and deeper each day," Allison whispered.

With that said, John reached out with his left hand a guided her mouth to his, kissing her tenderly. Allison hungrily parted her lips and accepted John's tongue. They embraced passionately for a full minute until John released. In spite of his own desire, he didn't want her getting too excited in her weakened condition. They remained nose-to-nose for several moments though, caressing each other's cheeks and chins.

John didn't want to leave the moment, but he also knew, among other things, that this was neither the time or the place.

"So how are they treating you in here?" he asked, backing away from her ever so slightly. "Is there anything you need?"

"Just you," she said, looking longingly into his eyes. "How long do I have to stay here?"

"It'll be at least six weeks," the nurse said. She had been silently monitoring them and actually considered intervening before John backed away. Her voice startled John into a less intimate posture with Allison, but he remained seated next to her.

"It'll probably be closer to eight, though," she chided, "so don't be trying any funny business."

John coughed at the remark and glanced away. Allison just rolled her eyes.

"Thanks, nurse," John finally said. "We get the message."

"Don't worry, Ally," John whispered. "I've waited this long to find you. Six more weeks is nothing."

"That's easy for you to say," Allison retorted. "You're not the one with the broken leg."

"Would you like me to have a helicopter land on my leg?" John teased. "Or maybe I should dive under a collapsing roof!"

"Stop it!" Allison said, hitting him mockingly on his arm. "I don't want you leaving my sight!"

"Well, I can't stay all day, can I now?" John said. "I got a newspaper to print. Let's talk about what we're gonna put in it."

"Alright," Allison conceded. "I also did a little writing while you were away."

She then reached under her pillow and produced no fewer than 10 pages of writings, notes, scriblings and sketches. John was awestruck by the barrage, but as he began reading them he realized they were a virtual word-for-word transcription of his speeches.

"Ally!" John said, "This is incredible. What did you have, a hidden tape recorder or something?"

"Or something?" Allison replied, teasing. "I have a photographic memory, John. Vivid sights and sounds have always been easy for me to remember."

For a moment, John actually thought he was talking to Cameron again. He just stared at her blankly before shaking his head and smiling, " Okay then," he said. "Just another weapon to use against Skynet, I guess."

"Is that all I am to you, a weapon?" Allison asked, feigning a sorrowful look.

John looked up sharply at Allison from her writings and quickly moved to sit close to her again. He cradled her chin delicately with his left hand.

" I saw something on a computer today, one of those we rebuilt in the publishing room," John said. "I thought of you immediately."

Allison tilted her head and nodded slightly, beckoning John to continue.

"The desktop pattern wasn't a sunset, or a waterfall, or a family, or a pair of kittens playing," John continued. "It was a quaint little piece of art called the 'Cobbler' by an artist named Elio Carletti. Anyway, there was a small quote by Carletti just underneath the painting. That's what made me think of you."

"What did it say?" Allison asked, completely riveted by the tale.

"I thought you'd ask, so I memorized it for you," John said. "It said, 'Beauty is the summation of the parts working together in such a way that nothing needed to be added, taken away or altered.' That's what you are to me, Allison—you're beautiful."

Allison practically melted on the spot. Reaching out, she hugged John even tighter than before, if such a thing was possible. "Thank you, John," she said through tears. "I love you."

"And I love you," John added.

They remained embraced for quite a long time, until John realized that she had actually fallen asleep. He tenderly leaned her back against the pillow and pulled the bed covers up to her neck.

"The poor thing is exhausted," the nurse suddenly said from behind John. "Did you know she was working on those all night for you?"

"I gathered that it took her a while," John said, spinning his head and speaking with a slightly irritated attitude. "Are you always watching?"

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to pry. With all the death and horror we've seen in the past decade, a touching moment between two people in love is really quite refreshing. It was beautiful."

John conceded her point and decided to drop the subject. She may have been overstepping her bounds, but she still had a job to safeguard the patients.

"Tomlinson," John said, "The other boy that was brought in yesterday. What's his status?"

"Follow me to the desk and I'll see what I can find," the nurse said.

John paused, leaning down to kiss Allison gently on the forehead. "I'll be back later, Ally," John whispered.

He approached the desk as the nurse hung up the phone. "He's still in ICU," she said. "Hopefully, he'll pull through."

John nodded. "Thank you, nurse," he said. "Please tell Ally I'll be back tomorrow morning."

He then returned to the command bunker, where he found that Lieutenant Benes had been waiting for him.

"Lieutenant," John greeted her. "What's the word?"

"General Hoth asked me to organize an escort for your return to the Reese's camp," Benes said, somewhat perturbed.

John picked up on her attitude immediately but decided to steer clear of it. _He probably wouldn't want to babysit him either._

A convoy of three badly delapidated vehicles made it back to the Zeira building without incident. Conversation was non-existent, as John expected and, in fact, enjoyed. He had to think of a way to inform the brothers that they were going to have to move.

And he knew they weren't going to like the idea.

John was immediately greeted by Kyle and they embraced in a brief hug. "So good to see you, John," Kyle said. "It was a long night."

"Yeah, I'm sure it was," John said. "But I'm very glad you two made it." He wished there was some way he could tell his father the truth, but too much depended on that secret remaining undisturbed.

"Is Derek around?" John asked. "We need to talk."


	19. Government redefined

**Thanks to gypsy069 and kageokami-kogo (among many others) for the kind reviews. They help a lot!**

* * *

I'm sorry, John," Derek said defiantly, "but there's no way in hell that's going to happen. Ever."

Meeting in the Reese's apartment in the Zeira building, John had been seeking the compliance of Derek, Kyle and Carol regarding their transfer of residence to the safety of the command bunker. Derek and Varol sat together on the couch, hand-in-hand, while Kyle sat in the recliner and John paced around the room, trying to convince them of his plan's solvency.

The conversation had not gone well. Their survival, with Kyle's being paramount, was obviously crucial to John's existence, but without the ability to tell them why, his argument seemed to lack substance.

Still, John thought he had to try.

"Please," John pleaded. "Try to look at it from my point of view."

"Well, I'm sorry John," Derek added, standing up to confront him face-to-face. "But you're not making a lot of sense here."

Derek paused and stole glances at his wife first, and then at his brother. Carol had a confused but intent expression, but Kyle appeared to be merely contemplating his feet.

"We've survived here for the better part of five years," Derek said. "It's not paradise, but we're making due. You've been here, what—three days—and now you know what's better for us? I don't think so!"

"I just think everyone will be safer there," John added.

"How do you know that?" Derek challenged, now growing angry. "It's a military base—a military target. How can that be safe? Besides, I thought you didn't trust the military!"

"General Hoth admits the problems with the war," John said. "He wants to change the way things are going. He knows we can do better."

"Hoth _is_ the problem, John," Derek said adamantly. "He and all his general and admiral cronies are why we're in this mess. How else do you explain last night's disaster?"

John seized the opportunity to explain the global situation to them—war profiteering, the movement of goods and munitions from the southern hemisphere, slavery—everything. It calmed Derek down, but didn't ease his mistrust.

"How do you know that's the truth?" Derek asked. "It could be just more lies."

"I know what it sounds like," John confessed. "But we have to take a leap of faith somewhere. If we want to continue—humanity, that is—we have to start trusting each other again."

"What about all the other families?" Carol asked. "What about the children? We can't just abandon them!"

Derek took a long breath as Carol awaited another counter. John appeared contemplative, considering factors he had not before. Kyle recognized his opportunity to weigh in.

"We all have to live our lives as best we can," Kyle said, as the others all turned to give their attention to he who had only been a silent observer thus far. "If we choose not to follow you John, you should respect our choices."

John nodded in understanding. He now realized that he was asking Derek the impossible, to abandon his people and his castle, even if the latter was a decrepit and decaying basement complex.

"Alright, okay, I get it," John conceded. "I just want you to know it's an open invitation. You just say the word. Anytime."

"You know it," Derek said, smiling.

"Well, I gotta go," John said. "I just want to grab that chip from your room, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Carol replied.

John emerged from the bedroom, chip in hand. Before leaving he turned to Carol.

"I'd like to make sure that the children all get and understand copies of our newspaper," John said. "Can I count on you for that?"

"Absolutely!" Carol responded enthusiastically. "I even have some ideas for articles or editorials."

"That's terrific!" John said. "We can use all the help you can give us. You should see all the work Ally's done already!"

"Ally?" Kyle asked. "Isn't she in the hospital?"

"She has amazing stamina and imagination," John said, gleaming with pride. "In spite of her injuries, just based on a few of the things I said, she conjured up the whole design and content of our newspaper—last night. She called it, 'The Resistance Today.'"

"That's gotta nice ring to it," Derek said, smiling. "Amazing kid that Ally. Is it gonna have a sports section? I wanna see how the Dodgers are doing!"

Carol responded by standing and punching her husband on the bicep. Derek pretended he was mortally wounded.

"It sounds beautiful," Carol added. "I can't wait to see it."

"How are you going to produce it?" Kyle asked. "Did Skynet abandon their printing press?"

"We managed to piece together some odds an ends—you know—old computers, printers, copiers," John explained. "I think it'll work."

"It sounds great, John," Derek admitted. "But if you want repeat customers, you better have some box scores."

This time Carol slapped Derek on the side of the head. Derek responded with a tickling attack on Carol's abdomen that immediately had her reeling. They tumbled back into the bedroom, out of sight, almost certainly on purpose.

Kyle smiled faintly at the scene. Turning back to John, he said, "It was nice to see you, John. I want you to know that the idea of being safe in the bunker—away from all the death and destruction—has its appeal, of course. There may be a day when we take you up on your offer."

"The door is always open for your family," John said, looking him square in the eyes.

"We appreciate your concern," Kyle said. "You understand that my place is by my brother's side. I owe him my life a dozen times over. I can't leave him."

John took his father's hand and pulled him in for a hug. "Of course. But you take care of yourself, Kyle," he said. "Don't be a stranger."

John departed the Zeira building only to find an annoyed Benes waiting by their convoy.

"Lieutenant," John said, trying to suppress a smile. "Whenever you're ready."

Benes slammed shut the door of her car, a little harder than was necessary and breathed a heavy sigh. The convoy sped off with nary a word exchanged between the two.

For the next several weeks, John and Ally, along with a seemingly endless supply of helpers, got the newspaper up and running. John had the equipment moved out of the bunker into a half-vacant building on the base. The other half was used for storage, so the fledgling publication did not interfere with day-to-day military operations.

Pulling off a daily appearance of "The Resistance Today" was a bit too ambitious, but certainly three times a week was within their reach. And John's broadcasts were held evey night at 8 p.m. sharp.

Hoth was an inexhaustible supply of information, particularly on the battles with Skynet around the globe. There were at least 14 strongholds at various points in the northern hemisphere. Not suprisingly, most were near old Cold War installations.

At Petropavlovsk, the old Russian naval base on the remote peninsula of Kamchatka in the northern Pacific, the dogged terrain and impossible weather allowed the humans to give the machines fits. Similar situations prevailed near Irkutsk in central Siberia, where the Russians combined with the Mongolians to carve out an existence, and near St. Petersberg, where the Russians worked with old allies—the Finns and Generals January and February, who were now year-long companions.

Rough terrain seemed to be a common theme for resistance outposts, so it was no surprise to find two more tough cells in the northern latitudes—one in the mountians of Norway, another in the Scottish Highlands. The machines found, much like countless warriors in uncounted wars since the beginning of recorded history, that mountain passes were easily defended and booby-trapped. The fact that the Scots never lost their sense of humor—the bagpipes would typically blare "Scotland the Brave" to draw the terminators into traps—made for some particularly interesting reading.

The Chinese were also weighing in on the battle, although their losses in the opening nuclear salvos were egregious. With much of their 1.3 billion souls concentrated along the cost, it was estimated that 800 million perished in the atomic inferno. Still, a massive cell fought hard and well in the mountainous province of Chongqing, while another combined with the oft-oppressed peoples of Southeast Asia fighting a desperate battle in the ruins of Hanoi.

Not to be outdone, the Japanese used their uneven terrain and ancient cunning to barricade thmeselves against Skynet. Their losses were severe, however, with much of their population perishing in the crowded cities on Judgment Day.

To be sure, the second hardest hit region on the planet was the Indian subcontinent, which counted approximately 700 million dead on the first day of the war. They too found an ally in the Himalayas, combining with the Nepalese and Tibetans to make the machines' presence there most unpleasant.

Another common theme amongst resistance camps was that locales that persisted against would-be conquerers in the past were once again popular. So, much like Marshall Tito and his followers in the 1940s, the rugged peoples of the Balkans—be they Serb, Bosnian, Hungarian, Czech, Romanian or Greek—took to the hills and survived agianst the enemy.

In North America, much of the east coast was bombed into submission and was, by all accounts, uninhabitable. Many survivors congregated on the Canadian Shield in the remote regions of Quebec and fought along the lines of those in Siberia. The Pacific Northwest told a similar story near Seattle and Vancouver, while many Mexicans and Texans dismissed their long-standing fued to create a large cell near Houston.

Finally, the Australians, no strangers to environmental hardships, used guile and determination to hold Skynet at bay with one large resistance cell near the mostly destroyed major cities in the southeastern corner of the continent. Using their indigenous knowledge of the bush and the outback gave the lone human combatants in the southern hemisphere a distinct advantage over their machine foe.

John and Allison carefully presented the story of each cell as accurately as they could. John felt it was important to highlight each of the areas in different editions, on different days. If the readers could see the scope of the resistance—truly a global effort—they would truly feel they were not alone.

Also sprinkled in with the combat accounts were stories about the South American and African betrayal to humanity. It was difficult for John, Allison and the staff to keep bias and propoganda out of these editorials, but the simple fact was that no one from thoise regions was around to present their side of the story. All they could really do was offer an open invitation for anyone to challenge their accusations.

Allison, creative as ever, enlisted the help of as many nationalities as she could find. Fortunately, the melting pot that was Los Angeles never really vanished in the apocalypse, so translating the paper into Spanish, Chinese, Cyrillic, Hindi or Japanese, among others, was not a problem.

Distribution was something of an issue. The kids in Carol's class became delivery people overnight, so the local management was hardly a concern. Overseas issues relied on ancient fax machines using Hoth's juryrigged satellite networks on the good days; on the bad ones, _The Resistance Today_ would use the profiteers—the very ones it was badmouthing—for delivery, hardly an ideal situation.

Still, in spite of the hardships, John and Allison became household names around the globe, as did some of the other writers and commentators. John already knew that he would become famous, but he was taken aback by Allison's celebrity. This led to a short, but lively, exchange between the two regarding the use of their portraits in the publication.

"I don't like the idea of using your picture in the _Resistance_," John said. "I think it makes you a target."

"But it's okay to use yours?" Allison snapped. "How that for chauvanism?"

"Hey, I'm talking about your safety, here, missy," John chided, looking up from his terminal. "This has nothing to do with men and women."

"Your safety's at stake too, buster," Allison replied, hopping over next to him on her crutches. She pointed the left crutch at him, as if that solidified her argument. "You know I'm right. Just admit you're wrong and move on."

John had to suppress a smile, knowing she was only half serious and that she had a good point. On the other hand, he _knew_ that he was going to survive the war and that Allison would be captured and most likely killed. _What if they identify her through a seemingly harmless photograph?_

Eventually, he decided—somberly—that Allison's fate was also decided and that the time was best served enjoying each other's company, not dreading the future. John also felt that the morale boost—soldiers and citizens alike were known to carry their likenesses around for inspiration—was more important than anything.

"Of course you're right, Ally," John answered, smiling. "I'm just worried one of those lonely soldiers will lure you away with some sappy love letter or something."

"Oh, that's so thoughtful of you, John," Allison said, mockingly, batting her eyes. "I guess I'm supposed to ignore your daily shipment of marriage proposals."

John was getting a lot of them to be sure, mostly due to his nightly broadcasts, he supposed. He lowered his head for a moment to hide his blushing response.

"You're just so damn beautiful, Ally," John responded, grinning slyly. "You're the only woman for me. You know that. All those guys out there are pining for you. I'm jealous."

John reached for her with his left hand and Allison feigned resisting before succumbing to an awkward embrace, crutches still in her hands.

"You're jealous?" Allison exclaimed. "Geez, half the world wants to marry him and he's jealous! Sorry, he's taken, ladies!"

Allison bent down and kissed John on top of his head before moving over toward the printer to fetch her latest musings. John took the occasion to exchange a quick glance with one of the other workers, an attractive young red-headed woman named Stacey.

"I'm taken!" John exclaimed, enthusiastically. Stacey merely shrugged and went back to typing.

The other good news was that Allison's leg was healing fast. The nurse, of course, insisted that more bedrest would expedite the process even more, but they simply couldn't keep Allison out of the newsroom. John had never seen such devotion, except perhaps from his mother.

Six weeks had passed since they started publishing and broadcasting. More and more survivors from the battle in the valley had trickled in until the final casualty report was listed at a shade over 5,000. It was still a distastrous loss, but at least the Los Angeles cell was not devoid of defenders.

Minor skirmeshes marked the period as Skynet probed the resistance for weaknesses. They apparently had suffered high losses in the battle as well and needed to rebuild.

Also making strides were Zimmer and his cryptologists, who were now working in concert with Barnes, Williams and a considerable team of civilian computer experts. They were so successful, in fact, that SN-5—the Skynet commuincations code Zimmer had referred to before—had been completely cracked.

Now, it was a waiting game. The Resistance needed to wait for a large Skynet operation and use the information to ambush them.

There was only one problem, though: Skynet wasn't cooperating. For a war, things were relatively quiet.

John and Allison decided that the best use of editorial space in this dormant period was a series of pieces about the re-establishment of a representative government. This was met mostly with cheers and encouragement, but, as with everything else, there were naysayers.

And the opponents had good arguments. The principal counter-point was the decades-old debate about term limits: representatives that served too long became stale, useless and, most importantly, obsessed with re-election.

Another item of contention was the so-called "too many chiefs and not enough Indians" theory. In the past, important resolutions were dragged down by bureaucracy and petty concerns in endless debates and worthless committee sessions. Now, the goal was to have a few enlightened individuals making decisions instead of many dimwits dragging their feet.

Accordingly, it was decided: election of three council members for the greater Los Angeles area would be held on June 30. Terms would be one year and, once a term was completed, that individual could not hold that post again. It was late May, so roughly one month of campaigning was in store.

John and Allison weren't sure what to expect, but the response was considerable. More than 50 people expressed an interest for the three seats in the first week alone, so they decided that the search for candidates had to be more refined. In the very next issue of _The Resistance_, they included a small questionairre which asked poignant questions about the state of current society: What are society's most pressing needs? What initiatives will help insure our survial and growth? Can the military be trusted to run this war without civilian oversight?

Clearly, the last question was more specific than the others and John made sure that General Hoth was aware of the question's existence before he published it. Hoth had no qualms whatsoever about it. In fact, he invited scutiny, which, in retrospect, John should have expected.

_The Resistance's_ editors intended to publish the best 10 or 15 answers. Lively debates raged in the newsroom on a daily basis, but the group finally narrowed them down and began printing them in early June. There would be one per issue for the next 13 prints.

"You really created a shit storm with this idea, John Connor," Allison said, somewhat derisively. "But it's pretty exciting."

"Hopefully, we help create a better society," John conceded. "One thing's for sure, though."

"What's that?" Allison aksed.

"This got a whole lot more interesting when James Ellison threw his hat into the ring," John responded.


	20. The Surprise

When Election Day finally arrived, John found himself more relieved than excited. Certainly, democracy was about to make its triumphant return, but he really couldn't believe the amount of work it took just to turn a concept into reality.

First were the seemingly endless debates in the newsroom about who to include in the election and who to discard. Trying to get a committee to see things objectively and consider only the issues was practical and logical—in theory. To have them ignore petty concerns such as physical appearance, eloquence, use of grammar, age, race and a host of more and more trivial matters was just as pragmatic—and just as impossible.

At one point, John announced, to everyone's shock, that it might be better if the machines made the selections. "At least we'll have a decision made this century," an angry John intoned.

"Yeah, and you'd know the election wasn't rigged either," Allison added, with a silly smirk on her face.

At that point, everyone in the room grew quiet, awaiting—indeed, dreading—John's reaction. However, instead of exploding in anger, he began laughing uncontrolably, with Allison and the rest of the group soon chiming in.

Beyond that were concerns regarding the collection of votes, who should be allowed to vote, how to assure each person only voted once, and a myriad of other problems that seemed to surface at the worst moments.

"Democracy," John muttered to himself as he hacked away at the computer terminal, paraphrasing the great Winston Churchill, "is the worst form of government. Except for all the rest."

In the end, a group of 50 individuals, handpicked by John, was selected to collect the votes from all around Los Angeles. The choices were not easy to make, as he had several factors to consider, not the least of which were alacrity and stealth—the abilities to move quickly and stay hidden from Skynet. They also had to be trustworthy, dedicated to this important task and believe wholeheartedly in the undertaking.

On June 30, all votes were to be cast by 6 p.m, with the intention to have all the ballots returned to the newsroom by midnight. Even if this monumental task could be accomplished in the allotted time, it was estimated that somewhere between three and seven days would be needed to tally the votes. John had handpicked the couriers, but a much more select group—including Allison and just four other high ranking writers—were entrusted with the actual count.

John kept security very tight, requesting and receiving military muscle to keep out the curious or anyone with ulterior motives. John was particularly insistent of avoiding predictions or exit polls, mostly because he despised the old television networks and their idiotic projections with only paltry percentages of the voting returns known.

That being said, three things were abundantly clear early in the count: James Ellison and the leader of a large resistance cell in the Santa Anna Mountains—one Kristen Gonzalez—were probably going to finish second and third in the election, with 5,131 and 4,384 votes, respectively, already counted towards them. The next closest competitor—a Richard Park from Riverside—had a little over 1,500 in his favor, and his community had been accounted for.

The big surprise, the one that no one saw coming, but should have, was the landslide of support for the vote leader. Nearly 13,000 ballots had written in a name not included with the original 13.

_John Connor._

John had been in his office, quietly working on a piece of writing about the election. Purposely, he had asked to be undisturbed, specifically regarding the vote tally. Nevertheless, Allison felt this was too important to ignore.

She knocked on the door lightly, entering without waiting for a response. She was the only one who could get away with this slight breach of etiquette.

"I asked not to be disturbed…"John said, turning in his chair, but he cut himself off. His expression changed from a frown to a grin. "Oh, Ally! I guess I can handle a little disturbance."

Allison grinned back as she shut the door. Carrying a sheet of paper, she scuffled over to him. Although in considerably better shape, she was still slightly hobbled by her broken leg. The cast had been removed last week, but she was using a brace and one crutch to compensate until she got her strength back.

"Hey, how's your leg?" John asked, beckoning her over with open arms. "Did you get more pain meds?"

"It's fine, John," Allison answered as she took a seat on John's right thigh, her left arm wrapping around his neck, stretching her still weakened limb across to his opposite leg. It was a fib, but she was growing weary of everyone overprotecting her, even John.

"You're getting better at that," John said, grinning slyly as he wrapped his arms around her waist. "I almost believed you that time."

Allison playfully rolled her eyes at his response, taking the opportunity to run her fingers through his hair. "I need to show you something," she said.

John's heart skipped a beat. Those were Cameron's precise words the last time they were alone. He glared, wide-eyed at his girlfriend.

Allison's expression changed from sultry to slightly confused. "I know you don't want to see any of the election results until the final tally, but we've seen a considerable amount of write-in votes," she said.

"No! It doesn't matter!" John protested. "C'mon, Ally! I'm trying to stay objective here! I can't know who's winning or going to win if I expect to write this piece with a clear mind!"

"John, I know that!" Allison responded, handing him the piece of paper she was carrying. "For heaven's sake, I agreee with you! God! We've argued about this enough! Don't you think I understand? But you have to see this! It effects everything!"

Reluctantly, John took the sheet from Allison. His expression quickly changed from irritation to shock. He leaned back in his chair, his right arm still around her waist.

"How can this be?" John asked. "We didn't allow for write in votes. These don't count!"

"How can they not count, John?" Allison responded. "The people have spoken! They love you! They can't help but love you!"

"But I wasn't running for office," John pleaded, lowering his head. "How is this fair to the other candidates?"

"Who said anything about fair?" Allison said, lifting his chin, looking him straight in his eyes. "When is this world ever fair? Was it fair that the goddamned machines have blown the Earth to kingdom come? Is it fair that they're hunting us to extinction?"

"But I never asked for any of this," John said. "I know that change is needed and I'm happy to be one of the voices asking for it. But can I actually bring that change about?"

"We need you, John," Allison continued, fire in her eyes. "The people really respond to you! You're a natural leader! You give us hope, a reason to believe, a reason to live!"

John stood up abruptly, deftly, but gently, switching Allison to a seated position in the chair in the process. "It's not right, Allison," he said. "We've got to have checks and balances. Some will say it's been fixed. Absolute power corrupting absolutely!"

Just then, John's phone rang, and he answered quickly. "Connor," he said, perhaps a little too harshly. After listening briefly, he answered, "I'll be right there."

Turning back to Allison, he said, "Alright, Ally, you made your point. Continue the tabulation. We'll see how it ends up. See if you can fluff up that piece I was working on a little—you know—throw a little history in there or something. Of course, take my name off the by-line. Otherwise it's good to go."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"A Colonel Nishimira needs to see me," John responded, as he opened the door and walked out.

Allison glared at the office entrance for a few moments and then spun the chair around to continue typing John's story.

Susan Nishimira was actually a commander in the U.S. Navy, but the almost complete absence of the fleet necessitated her honorific transfer to the army. Her experience and intelligence earned her a command post in Hoth's army—she commanded one of the regiments that was slaughtered in the valley in that disastrous battlle on April 22.

Nishimira was approaching 50 years of age and was showing a little gray in her jet-black hair, but, like many women of Asian descent, did not display many of the typical signs of middle age. Even under these circumstances, she kept herself physically fit and could have been easily mistaken for someone in their 30s.

John met Nishimira at the front of the newsroom and escorted her to an unoccupied office.

"What can I do for you, Colonel?" John asked, offering her a seat at the desk, opposite of him.

"You need to understand something, Mr. Connor," Nishimira said, taking her seat. "The information I'm about to convey is highly sensitive. Can I have your assurance it will not leave this room?"

"Of course," John said.

"This is totally off the record, Mr. Connor," Nishimira reiterated. "Not for publication or broadcast."

"I get it," John said, somewhat frustrated. "No one hears this but me."

"Good," the colonel answered, leaning in very close to him. She took a deep breath before glancing to the left and the right, as if someone had somehow snuck into the office in the interim. For his part, John was somewhat taken aback by her proximity.

"We intercepted a Skynet communique tonight," she whispered. "They are planning to move in with a large force—at least 200 T-600s—with the plans to annihilate whatever humans appear at the election results announcement and post-election party that you have planned at the motor depot."

Nishimira produced a folder that contained a copy of the cryptologists decoding work. John inspected the contents for a short time.

"Well, good," John replied, matching her tone. "Hoth is planning to intercept it, then?"

"No," Nishimira answered. "In fact, he's planning on doing nothing. Just some retaliatory strike after it's said and done."

"What?" John said, trying to suppress his anger. "Why bother intercepting Skynet's messages if we're not gonna use them?"

"Because it's not a big enough 'prize'," she replied. "It's not enough terminators for us to reveal that we've broken their code."

"And you believe that?" John said, incredulous. "Do you know how many civilians will die in this attack? Thousands will be there!"

"I know, Mr. Connor," Nishimira said. "That's why I came to see you. Look, Hoth is stuck on some historical reference. He won't change his mind."

"What reference?" John queried.

"From World War II," she said. "The British were bearing the brunt of Nazi Germany's war machine early in the war. However, one of their early successes came from British cryptologists, who cracked the Nazi cypher. So the British knew most, if not all of the German plans. However, during the famous Blitz, the nighttime Nazi bombing raids on English cities, one such raid—on the city of Coventry—was allowed by the British to proceed virtually unopposed, even though they knew what would happen. To Winston Churchill, the British Prime Minister, and their military, it was more important to secure the secret than to save some civilians."

"How many died?" John asked, swallowing hard. He also thought it more than a little ironic for Churchill's name to surface again.

"Several hundred," Nishimira answered. "But most could have been saved."

"So Hoth thinks this is our Coventry?" John asked, already knowing the answer.

"Of course," she said.

"But this is World War III," John said. "And we don't exactly have a booming population, rather the opposite, I would suspect."

"And Hoth is no Winston Churchill," Nishimira added.

John leaned back to regard the colonel, trying to measure her motives.

"We cannot allow anymore slaughter of civilians," John said. "It's time to start protecting them."

"Hoth needs to be removed," Nishimira added, bluntly.

"You mean killed, right?" John asked.

"Preferably not," the colonel said. "He's not an evil man, but his strategies clearly leave something to be desired."

"But who would replace him?" John asked. "You?"

"Well, I have no qualms about leading the corps," Nishimira answered. "But that is not my primary motivation. I think the timing for this is perfect. Whoever the choice is, he or she should be selected by the newly elected council."

"But how can we do that before the party?" John asked.

"Well, surely you have a good idea about who's going to win," Nishimira said. "These people need to start issuing directives right away."

For John, the colonel's words hit home and he turned away from her to stare blankly at the surface of the desk, idly stroking his chin_. Is this the moment when John is to be thrust into the leadership position he is destined for? Would it look like a fixed result?_

These questions bounced around his mind and he realized that the decision would have to be made rapidly. Thousands of civilian lives were at stake. John thought_, Am I ready?_

Then his mind wandered back to the conversation he and Allison had just completed before this meeting. _"We need you John,"_ she had said. And he also thought back to one of the first speeches he made to the small gathering in the Zeira cafeteria.

This was all about Allison and his family. This was all about love.

Without hesistating any more, John rose and locked eyes with Nishimira.

"Alright, colonel," John said. "We'll have Hoth arrested. We'll need you and your people to take over and assure a smooth transition. And we'll need some sort of battle plan to deal with Skynet's attack."

"Who put you in charge?" Nishimira asked, bewildered.

"I'm the leading vote getter," John said without reservation.

"But you weren't running," she replied.

"The write-ins carried the day," John answered.

"This is getting complicated," Nishimira said. "How do I know that's correct? What if you're just looking to take over? This is the perfect time to seize control!"

John studied her for a moment. "You've heard my broadcasts," he said. "You've read my articles. I give you my word that this is not about me or my ambitions. I'm trying to do what's right for what's left of humanity. And that starts with trust. How do I know what you told me is true? You could be just after Hoth's command!"

"It's all true!" Nishimira whispered. "I'm risking my life by telling you this. This will be considered mutiny!"

"So there it is," John said, coldly. "I'm trusting your information is factual. That's my leap of faith. What do you need from me?"

"Let me see those election results," she said.

"Very well," John answered. "Come with me."

They arrived at John's office only to find Allison still typing away feverishly.

"Allison Young, this is Colonel Susan Nishimira," John said, closing the door.

Allison stopped working and spun around in her chair. "Colonel," Allison said. "Excuse me if I don't get up, but my leg is bothering me a little…tonight."

John caught Allison lying again, but knew this was hardly the time to start that silly argument. Instead he shot her a brief sideways glance that indicated he knew.

"Of course Ms. Young," Nishimira answered. "I enjoy reading your articles. You certainly have a lot of spirit and courage for one so young."

"Thank you. I have a lot of motivation," Allison said, smiling and nodding her head toward John.

John returned the smile. "Ally, could you please show the colonel the vote tally so far," he said.

Allison's expression changed to shock , but then returned to a wide smile. She quickly realized that John had accepted his fate and handed Nishimira the tabulation.

"My God," Nishimira exclaimed. "It's not even close."

"Have all the couriers returned yet, Ally?" John asked.

"Yes," Allison replied. "but the results pretty steadily favored those three at the top."

"So it's gonna be me, Ellison and Gonzlaez?" John asked, rhetorically.

"The way Greg and Chris were explaining statistical theory to me, it's almost a certainty," Allison replied.

"Alright, Ally, continue the tally," John said, opening the door and beckoning for the colonel to join him. "But keep as tight a lid on this as possible."

"Where are you off to now?" Allison asked.

"I gotta have a meeting with the other two leaders," John replied. "Finish that story and then join us in room 113 with the latest results."

Allison smiled at them and watched them leave before spinning around to complete writing the story.


	21. Revolution

"_In every revolution, there's one man with a vision."_

"_Captain Kirk, I shall consider it."—Kirk and Imperial Spock from Mirror, Mirror._

This chapter is dedicated to one of my favorite ST:TOS episodes.

Also note: Small loophole in this chapter regarding Ellison and Allison. I'll have to explain their dynamic—specifically, how he's the only other one at the moment who would recognize Cameron and Allison's similarities. I'll do this in a future chapter.

* * *

John hoped Ellison and Gonzalez would not be hard to locate. He surmised they would be milling about the base, attempting to glean the results with the rest of the candidates. Nevertheless, he had two of his ubiquitous couriers on hand to search for his quaries.

Within 15 minutes, John's intuition was proven correct. The two councilors-elect arrived in the vacant office bright-eyed and smiling. John dived right in.

"Miss Gonzalez, Mr. Ellison, allow me to introduce you to Colonel Nishimira," John said, as the three exchanged hand shakes.

"What's this all about, John?" Ellison asked in that no-nonsense manner John had become accustomed to.

"We needed to get the three probable winners of the election together," John announced bluntly.

"So who's the third?" Gonzalez inquired. "Park? Muhammed? Davidson?"

John drew a deep breath. "It's me," he finally said, flatly, almost dreading the reaction.

"You?" Gonzalez said, exchanging an incredulous look with Ellison. "But you weren't on the ballot, Connor!"

"The write-ins carried the day," Nishimira interjected, handing each of them a copy of the vote tally. "I asked the same question, but it's not even close."

"Well isn't that convenient?" Gonzalez responded. "You count the votes _and win_? Doesn't anyone else see a problem with this?"

"I'm as shocked as you are,"John said. "The simple fact is that we failed to anticipate the possibility of write-in votes. Frankly, the return of democracy was far more complicated than any of us imagined."

"So if it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon relinquish my seat on the council, if for no other reason than I'm well aware of how it appears," John quickly added. "But there are far more important issues at sake here than deciding the winners of our impromptu election."

"Like what?" Gonzlaez asked.

Just then, Allison entered the office.

"Ms. Gonzalez, Mr. Ellison," Allison said, nodding a greeting to the two newcomers. "Excuse me, John. I have the latest ballot count."

"Show it to them, Ally," John said. "I'm assuming it hasn't changed."

"Actually, your lead has increased," Allison said sheepishly. "You've got more than 15,000 now."

John nodded an acknowlegement and offered Allison a smile. Inwardly, however, he cursed her poor timing.

"Colonel, please advise the others about the same information you shared with me a short while ago."

Nishimira nodded in turn. "What I'm about to tell you is highly senstitive and cannot leave this office," she said.

Following a 15-minute question and answer session with the colonel, Allison and Gonzalez reached the same conclusion John and Nishimira had only a short time before. Ellison, however, was hesitant to rush to judgment about his old friend Hoth.

"I'm unwilling to remove him from his post," Ellison said. "He's done so much to restore humanity's pride and confidence. We can't just write him off."

"But his tactics are poor," John said. "The corps had it's ass handed to them last time in battle and now he's going to sacrifice civilians. It's gotta change."

"In my opinion, his past record speaks for itself," Ellison replied. "I vote he stays."

"But I vote he's removed," John retorted.

"As do I," Gonzalez quickly added. "There it is—democracy in action. Two votes to one."

"Very well," Ellison answered. "But I want it on record that I opposed this."

"It is so noted," John said.

"So what do we do know?" Gonzalez aksed.

"If Hoth is going to be removed from command, only he needs to be replaced," Nishimira answered, matter-of-factly. "It's actually better if the rest of the command staff stays intact."

"Why's that?" John inquired.

"The command staff is merely an instrument carrying out their superior's orders," Nishimira explained. "All of the intangible work they do sight unseen—communication, logistics, organization, training, promotions and demotions, among others—is virtually irreplaceable. Anyway, it's the overall strategy that's the real problem."

"Okay, so we remove Hoth," Gonzalez said. "What if he resists?"

"Which he's almost certain to do," Nishimira replied, letting out a long sigh. "Then we'll have to arrest him."

"Is that really necessary?" Ellison asked angrily. "Isn't it bad enough to be taking away his job? Do we need to humiliate him as well?"

"That's really up to him," Nishimira replied. "But we best relieve him as soon as possible. The Skynet attack is still scheduled for July 7!"

"We'll do it right now," John answered.

"I hope you understand if I sit this part out," Ellison lamented. "I have no desire to see his demise."

John nodded in understanding and led the others out.

During the walk over, the colonel stopped and briefly talked with an aide. Moments later, the entourage was joined by two physically imposing soliders.

Nishimira shrugged. "Added insurance, in case he resists."

John nodded in agreement as they strided purposely toward the bunker.

When they reached the building, John grabbed Allison's hand and ushered the others inside.

"I don't want you to go inside, Ally," John said. "It's probably going to get rough."

Allison turned sharply in response to John's words. "What?" she said incedulously.

"You heard me," John chided. "You're finally getting better. I'm not letting you near danger. Not this soon."

"I don't care!" Allison protested. "To hell with that! I'm not letting _you_ near danger! I'm not leaving your side!"

John tilted his head as if to mock her response.

"Besides you need someone to cover the change of command for the newspaper," Allison belatedly added.

Those words seemed to change John's disposition. Either that, or the fire in Allison's eyes. He drew her in close.

"Alright Ally," John whispered. "But you stay right next to me. No exceptions."

Allison allowed herself a big grin. "Just like I said—I'm not leaving your side."

John nodded and they locked hands as they walked inside. Allison's limp seemed more pronounced to John, but he decided not to mention it. In any event he slowed his stride to compensate.

Nishimira and her "helpers" were checking their guns with the guards, while the colonel simultaneously worked on clearance for Gonzalez. John and Allison already had their ID badges pinned on their coats.

The party passed through security without incident. The elevator ride down was deathly quiet. For his part, John was focusing on his initial conversation with Hoth. The elevator opened and the six proceed through the CIC.

John spotted Hoth and led the procession in that direction. He was addressing a group of technicians at one of the many computer terminals.

As they approached the general, Allison squeezed John's hand, as if she sensed the gravity of his mission. John felt it and returned the favor, marveling at the strength he derived from her touch.

"Excuse me, general," John said, simply. "We'd like to have a word with you."

Hoth tensed up and turned around slowly. Silently he regarded John's remark, staring John directly in the eyes. He then looked at the other members of the party, pausing only when he found Nishimira. Then he nodded in understanding.

"Of course," Hoth said, his words slicing through the tension. "In my office."

Without another word, he led the group through the maze to his office. As usual, Sargeant Harris was sifting through assorted folders and filing cabinets.

"Sargeant, see to it were not distrurbed until I give the word," Hoth barked.

"Yes, sir," he answered, after snapping to attention.

Hoth circled around to the opposite side of his desk, standing behind his chair as if it shielded him. He invited the others to sit while he remained upright. John introduced Gonzalez and briefly explained the preliminary results of the election, although he omitted the fact that Ellison was also a winner, for the moment.

John, Allison and Gonzalez took the three seats directly around Hoth's desk. Nishimira and her crew seated themselves on the perimeter.

A long silence lingered in the room, during which time Hoth finally took his seat.

"So what can I do for you?" Hoth belatedly asked.

"General," John said, after drawing a long breath, "You've been an incredible leader for the resistance all these years. With your help, humanity has been able to stand up and fight back against the machines. We'll never forget that. But…"

"But now it's time for me to step down," Hoth interjected. "Is that what you're here to tell me, John?"

"The newly elected council feels we need new military direction," John answered flatly. "The latest results on the battlefield have been unacceptable."

"Did you really reach that conclusion?" Hoth retorted. "Or did Colonel Nishimira reason it out for you?"

"Her input was part of our judgment," Gonzlaez answered. "We considered information from many different sources."

"I'm sure you did," Hoth replied. He was trying to be stoic, but the acid dripping from his reply was impossible to mask.

"General, I'm sorry it has to be this way," John said. "But even you said change was needed."

Hoth bowed his head, nodding in agreement. Then, without another thought, he reached into his drawer and produced a revolver. A large one.

And he leveled it straight at John's head, mere centimeters from actually touching it. The others drew a collective gasp.

John and Hoth locked eyes. The latter spoke first.

"Did you really think I would just roll over and play dead?" Hoth angrily snapped. "If history teaches us anything, John, it's that power is never just simply handed over. Revolutions always involve a struggle, and that struggle means blood."

John slowly—very slowly—traded his gaze with Hoth, turning to look at Allison. His movement was so subtle that she didn't notice it at first. Instead, she had a terrified expression and seemed to be trembling with fear, a natural reaction to having the life of someone you love threatened so bluntly.

Still, John remained focused on Allison, waiting for her to react. To John, part of him was resigned to the possibility that these moments were to be his last, so he wanted to spend them with her, at least somewhat.

Hoth became more agitated as he droned on. " I don't need some snot-nosed, wet-behind-the-ears newcomer telling me my business…" he continued. It didn't matter, though, as John was blocking him out.

Allison at last noticed John's stare, and, after glancing back-and-forth between John, Hoth and the gun, she locked eyes with him. Now he smiled, hoping to elicit a similar response. It worked—despite the circumstances, she smiled broadly.

Which was all John needed. He could never get enough of Allison's beautiful smile under normal circumstances, but here it emboldened him, reminding him of the more personal reasons for this need for change. One simple expression was enough for him to remember the war wasn't about the titanic struggle versus Skynet, wasn't about him fulfilling his destiny as mankind's savior, and it certainly wasn't about this petty argument with Hoth.

Once again, it was about Allison. It was about love.

"We were hoping the principals of democracy and reason would prevail," a steely-jawed John intoned deeply, snapping his eyes back toward his aggressor in the process. The voice he used was just short of a yell, but it had the desired result: Hoth's diatribe was cut off mid-sentence.

"One of the reasons civilization failed the first time, was a lack of trust and respect," John continued. "I was hoping you would trust the new council's decision of respectfully relieving you of command, and then continue to serve the resistance with same unwavering loyalty, courage and commitment that has inspired and united us through very troubling times."

These words brought serious pause to the general. He kept the gun leveled at John, but his expression softened as he became more contemplative. An uncomfortable silence lingered for a few moments.

"You're wise beyond your years, Conner," Hoth lamented, in a distinctly more level tone.

"But I'm not gonna be part of your army."

The answer confused John for a moment, until he realized that Hoth was merely mimicking John's response to him when they first met. Still, John wasn't exactly sure what the general meant.

But before he could ask, Hoth abruptly raised the gun up to his own temple and pulled the trigger.

Everyone was shocked. John merely stared blankly at the space formerly occupied by Hoth. Allison cried out in horror and turned her head into John's chest. Gonzalez lunged in a pitiful attempt to stop him and then just slumped on the desk.

Hoth's body had fallen over onto the floor after the fatal shot, so Nishimira quickly ran around to the other side of the desk to see if anything could be done. After inspecting the damage by twisting his head to-and-fro, she sadly shook her head, confirming the obvious.

Now, Harris burst through the door. "Was that a gunshot?" he asked, spotting Hoth's lifeless body. "Oh no! The general! Is is bad, sir?"

"He's gone, sargeant," Nishimira said bluntly, looking up at him. "He did it to himself."

Harris slumped in resignation at the news. More officers began filing in, asking the same questions, responding more-or-less in the same manner. Nishimira asked the two soldiers they had brought in to do what they could to prevent any further inquiries.

A long silence consumed the office. Allison, tired of the death and destruction that seemed to lurk around every corner, had been quietly sobbing while nestled against John's chest. John had been mindlessly rubbing her back, trying to console her.

"Are you okay, Ally?" John whispered.

Allison looked up at him, sniffled and nodded an affirmative. John gently wiped the tears from her eyes and kissed her forehead.

"I thought he was going to kill you," Allison admitted. "So when the shot went off, all I could think about was losing you."

"I drew the strength to confront him from you," John said. "Thanks for talking me into letting you come with us."

To this, Allison smiled faintly. "C'mon," John said, as he stood up.

"Well, that could have gone better," John said to the colonel. "I thought there were no guns allowed in the CIC."

"One of the many abuses of power," Nishimira said, shrugging. "I hate to say it, but it was either him, or us."

John frowned a bit at the colonel's callousness. "It's a terrible loss," he lamented. "We'll miss his knowledge and experience."

"But not his blundering tactics," Nishimira quickly responded. "So what do we do now?"

"Well, we proceed as previously discussed," John said, turning to Gonzalez for confirmation. "We'll broadcast a bulletin about Hoth's death, print a summary in _The Resistance_, and continue the vote tally and planning for the election announcement party."

"But what about Hoth?" Gonzalez asked. "We can't tell people he shot himself. We gotta say he died in the attack—you know—like a hero."

"He _is_ a hero," John countered, all but snapping at Gonzalez. "Nothing can take away from that. But there will be no more lies. _The Resistance_ is about the truth. And that's exactly what the readers are gonna get."

Allison smiled proudly at John's comments. Nishimira and Gonzalez nodded in admiration, if not awe.

"What about the pending Skynet attack," Nishimira intoned. "They're still on the way."

"Well," John said, stroking his chin in thought. "You're temporarily in command. Come up with a plan to defeat them."


	22. A Complicated Web

John was not present while Nishimira and the command staff drew up plans to defend against the looming Skynet attack. He simply asked that they advise him and the other council members about whatever strategy they engendered, if for no other reason than to expedite the civilians' escape.

By 5 p.m., July 4, all of the couriers had returned and more than 85,000 ballots had been counted. The five trustees were bleary eyed and crabby, but they remained dedicated to the task with approximately 15,000 votes to go. John, Gonzalez and Ellison were still clearly going to win, earning 62, 26 and 22 percent of the vote, respectively.

Meanwhile, he, Allison and the newspaper staff produced the stories about the election and Hoth's suicide, while he alone prepared for his own broadcast on the same subjects. There was also some planning for the celebration to be held recognizing the winners of the election and the return of democracy. Some 2,000 were expected to attend—after all, this was Skynet's target, so they had to proceed as if oblivious of the enemy's intent.

They did have to move the party to July 15 because of all the planning—military and civilian—that was needed. And the cryptographers confirmed it: Skynet moved their "surprise" attack to comply with their human targets.

The party would be held at a motor depot about 10 blocks from Serrano Point. The location was mostly subterranean with only about a 500 centimeters above ground level. This allowed it to be pretty cleverly hidden from Skynet's prying eyes. The military had been using it as an intermediate point for launching attacks or as a haven for retreating or transiting formations.

Debris had been carefully positioned all around the building and all windows were covered with paint or sealed altogether to prevent light from escaping. Although typically humming with activity on a daily basis, from the outside it looked like just another pile of rubble in a vast sea of such piles.

In spite of these precautions, it was clear that Skynet was not fooled. That didn't matter now, however, as the depot and the party would be used as bait to trap the attackers.

Unfortunately, the cypher team could not determine all the specifics of Skynet's attack. They knew the place and time—9 p.m.—and the forces allotted to the attack—some 200 T-600s. But the exact tactics of the offensive—direction and deployment—remained elusive to the intelligence experts.

In response, Nishimira's plan had to be flexible by design. She mostly wanted as much firepower as she could muster to be within about two blocks north, south, east and west of the depot. Like Skynet had done to them in the valley, they would allow the T-600s to march right through unscathed, then close the trap from all sides.

The largest problem was removing so many civilians unharmed. Although tricky and time-consuming, the colonel believed it could be accomplished by the sewer that ran directly underneath the depot, provided they started the evacuation well before the actual battle.

That's where the council came in. There were three entances to the sewer in the depot, each with a 5-meter ladder from the surface to the culvert below. John calculated they could move about 60 people out every five minutes, so roughly 165 minutes would be needed to evacuate everybody. If they began at 6:15, they should make it while still providing an illusion for any enemy lookouts.

That is, if Skynet abided by their timetable.

An incredible amount of work had to be done by the military and civilians in a relatively short period of time. Fortunately, the actual party had been in the planning stages for weeks anyway. Some of the speeches and announcements had to be moved to a point earlier in the celebration to accommodate the evacuation, but otherwise things proceeded as planned.

The military was used to operating on tight schedules. They just threw more manpower at it if they fell behind.

While many scurried about the base with various assignments, James Ellison managed to isolate Allison for a few moments. He marveled at her efforts to lift a rather large box of china, hesitating to help at first, almost in disbelief.

"You really do need help with that, don't you?" Ellison asked.

Allison didn't answer, preferring instead to give him a wide-eyed glare while she gasped for breath. Ellison quickly moved to assist her and, in fact, took the box from her entirely, moving it to a table at her direction.

Ellison was surprised to find the box wasn't particularly heavy. Perhaps for a woman the size of Allison, but not for a terminator that once threw him around his own living room. After placing the box down, he turned around to size up the young lady.

"How long have you known John?" he asked.

She arched her left eyebow and twisted her head slightly as she considered the question briefly. Simultaneously, Ellison felt a chill run up his spine—the similarity to Cameron was uncanny.

"Three months, more-or less," she responded. "Why?"

"I've known John much longer," Ellison replied, locking eyes with Allison.

"Why has he never mentioned this?" Allison asked, bewilderment written all over her features.

Just then, John arrived on the scene, accompanied by a hoard of helper children. Allison and Ellison spun simultaneously to face him.

"Why don't you ask him?" Ellison said, adding, "Excuse me, I have somewhere I need to be," as he stormed by a perplexed John.

"What was that all about?" John said.

Allison shook her head, replying, "We'll talk about it later." She then quickly walked away, in the opposite direction of Ellison's destination.

"What? Wait… Ally! What's….." John said, stuttering in confusion. "I'll be so glad when this is over."

As 3 p.m. and the party's start approached, John found himself restless. He could not avoid the feeling that something was being overlooked, despite a cast of thousands and his near obsessive compulsive inspection of a checklist.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" Allison asked. "You've been working almost continously since yesterday morning."

It was actually a good suggestion, John conceded. "Why don't you join me?" John answered, a little too bluntly.

Allison merely blinked at John, almost shocked by John's abruptness. Of course, other than that brief experience together in Derek's bedroom, John and Allison had never been together. Most of the blame for that rested solely on the severity of Allison's injuries, but there was also the fact that Serrano Point had to segregate men and women out of necessity.

John suddenly realized what he was asking and found himself quickly blushing. "I'm sorry, Ally," he said fumbling the words. "I didn't mean it that way. I just thought we could have a little quiet time together."

Allison shook her head and smiled. "Of course that's what you meant," she said, winking at him. "You're still a guy. But it doesn't matter, I'll go anyway."

John smiled back and offered her his hand. They walked hand-in-hand over to a small, unoccupied office on the depot's perimeter. John asked Allison to proceed inside while he located one of the newspapers' ubiquitous couriers. He briefly explained to the young boy that he and Allison would be resting in the office for a short while.

"Don't let anyone in here or disturb us unless the place is about to blow up,"John instructed, offering him a chocolate bar he had been carrying. "Knock loudly and get us up in about one hour."

The boy nodded in understanding and promptly sat right in front of the door as John shut it. He immediately began eating his prize.

The office was sparsely furnished, but did have the requisite desk, chairs and filing cabinets. There was also a badly dilapidated couch, something John apparently already knew. The lights were off, but some ambient light flooded in through the window, illuminating Allison's face. It wasn't the first and John hoped it wouldn't be the last time that her features were rendered so angelic.

"You take the couch," John said, moving toward the desk. "I'll just use the chair over here."

"Come here," Allison said, in a voice just above a whisper, inviting him over with open arms. John instinctively locked eyes with Allison, even though she couldn't quite return the favor because of the semi-darkness.

In spite of what he said just moments ago, John genuinely did not want to imply any sexual overtures in his invitation. He actually—really—needed to talk to her about something that had been nagging at him since Nishimira first approached him: Allison's proximity to the battle zone. There was also the puzzling conversation with Ellison to discuss.

But he wasn't certain at all about Allison's agenda here. Desperately searching for an answer in her eyes, John was content with letting her initiate what he felt was about to transpire, despite his own raging hormones. Because of her injuries and because she alone knew her real physical limits, the simple fact was that Allison would dictate the course of the proceedings. She was, actually, almost fully healed, as John could barely detect a limp and he had also noted that she had been walking without a crutch for several days now.

So when Allison merely guided him to the far corner of the couch and gently laid her head on his chest, John was perfectly satisfied with this arrangement. He began stroking her hair gently, while she matched the rhythm of his breathing. The two remained embraced for some time before John finally broke the silence.

"I'm so glad you're part of my life," John said quietly. "You're an inspiration, Ally."

Allison stirred somewhat at John's commentary. "You're the inspiring one, John," she answered. "The newspaper, the election, the speeches on the radio—it's been so amazing."

"I want you to know that you're just as integral to these developments," John replied. "I couldn't have done any of it without you."

Allison reached up and found the hand John had been caressing her hair with. She squeezed it tightly; he responded in kind and kissed her head softly.

Another period of quiet followed. This time Allison interrupted.

"Hoth said you were wise beyond your years," she commented. "What do you think he meant?"

John knew precisely what he meant. Much of his life had been spent either training to battle Skynet or actually doing it. Without realizing it, John had gained wisdom normally reserved for individuals two or three times his age, the sort of acumen one could achieve only by surviving multiple life-and-death situations.

Of course, the actual knowledge of Skynet, the war, terminators and his pivotal role with all three was not something that could be easily replicated. Or explained. So, how could he answer Allison's query?

"I suppose I learned everything I know from my Mom," John said after reflecting for a few moments.

"What's she like?" Allison asked, her curiosity peaking.

"She's the greatest fighter I've ever known," John said, proudly. "She knew from the start what was at stake—our survival. And she always did whatever it took for us to persevere."

John chose his words carefully and was purposely ambiguous. He knew that humanity's fate—as well as his own—depended on Sarah's actions and hoped Allison wouldn't detect the double meaning.

"What's your fondest memory of her?" Allison inquired, apparently oblivious of John's play on words.

He thought a moment before replying. "I never told her, but I loved when she read to me at bedtime. I suppose she already knew though, cuz I asked her nearly every night when I was little. 'The Wizard of Oz' was my favorite, but just about anything would do. Maybe she really loved it too—I don't remember her ever complaining about it."

"I think she just loved being with you, John," Allison replied. "That's easy enough to understand."

John chuckled a little at her response. Allison suddenly twisted herself half-around and confronted him, face-to-face.

"What happened to her, John?" she asked, staring him directly in his eyes. "Is she still alive?"

John's mind raced back to Ellison's revelation that Sarah had also entered the time portal. She did so after John and Weaver, of course, but why hadn't she arrived yet?

"I don't know, Ally," he lamented. "We were separated just before….Skynet captured me. I need to get back to Santa Clarita and search for her."

It was a half-truth. John wasn't even sure if Santa Clarita even existed anymore.

And Allison picked up on it immediately. It may have been his stammered response or his quick glance away before responding. Either way, she caught him.

"What is it, John?" she pressed. "What are you hiding? And why haven't you mentioned how long you've known James Ellison?"

"I don't know what you mean," John answered defensively, narrowing his eyes. Allison merely stared back at him in a way that only reminded him of Cameron.

"What did Ellison tell you?" John asked.

"He said he's known you for quite a long time," Allison answered.

John pondered her response. From Ellison's point of view, it was a long time—more than 20 years. From John's, it was about two years. _How can I explain this?_

Just then, a knock came at the door.

"Come in," John and Allison answered simultaneously.

It was Kristen Gonzalez. "Excuse me," Gonzalez said, poking her head in through the door. "We need you two out here helping organize. I've got all kinds of questions coming my way and I don't know what to tell them."

John was secretly relieved to have something to do. He nudged Allison in an attempt to get her moving.

"This isn't over, buster," Allison said, poking him in the chest. "We have unfinished business."

Allison gently disengaged herself from their embrace and walked quickly out the door, a very slight limp evident in her gait. John watched her go before laying straight back on the couch. He let out a heavy sigh—he never got to talk about what was really on his mind—Allison staying out of combat. And now, Ellison's complicating things—again.

Abruptly, John jumped up, following her out the door.

Time basically ceased to exist as the party got underway. John eventually decided that it had already started earlier in the day anyway. Once they got a brief but informative edition of the _Resistance Today_ printed and distributed, in addition to a preliminary broadcast about the election, people began filtering into the depot and offering their congratulations.

To be sure, this was not a champagne-laiden, black-tie affair. The most popular drink was water, although the occasional—borderline hazardous—moonshine definitely made its presence felt, while the food was distributed in a basic military manner—a lot of bland casseroles and cafeteria trays.

A few speakers entertained the crowd, most notably Gonzalez, Ellison and John, all thanking those who voted for them and all praising the return of democracy. John also made sure that the speeches were broadcast on their primitive radio network, hoping to inspire similar results in other locales.

While Gonzlaez delivered her address—a particularly long one, John thought—he also had the chance to offer his condolences to Ellison. The former FBI agent had made himself scarce the last few weeks and even when he was needed for official business, he made it abundantly clear that he wasn't in the mood for conversation.

"I'm sorry about your friend," John said. "It didn't have to be that way."

"How did you think he would react, John?" Ellison asked angrily.

"I didn't think he would kill himself, if that's what you mean," John said defensively. "Anyway, I had no way of knowing he kept a gun in his desk."

"Yeah, well now we're all sons of bitches," Ellison stated without looking at John.

"What did you talk about with Allison today?" John asked, switching topics not-so-tactfully.

"I told her I've known you for a long time," Ellison conceded. "For a while, I actually thought she was Cameron. But her broken leg and her obviously unrobotic strength has convinced me otherwise. So what happened to Cameron?"

"She's gone," John lamented. "John Henry has her chip, but I can't reach him at the moment. Weaver says we'll meet again, but until then…." John's voice trailed off as the emotions caught up with him. Ellison cut him off just short of crying for his departed friend.

"Where is Weaver?" Ellison all-but-demanded.

"With John Henry, of course," John answered. "Was it really wise to tell Allison that?"

"What's going to happen to her John?" Ellison replied, accusingly. "Is that how they create Cameron's model? Shouldn't she know?"

John had no answer. Ellison then quickly walked away. John was left with yet more problems to consider.

Fortunately, he didn't have a long time to contemplate Ellison's comments. The invitation he had extended to Derek, Kyle and Carol had been accepted. With great timing, they had chosen this moment to make their presence known.

"There he is!" Derek said, slapping John hard on the back. "I knew it was a good idea not to shoot him that first day!"

John offered his uncle a wide grin and hugged him. "Wow, here's an ocassion," John countered. "Derek actually shaved. You sure you brought the right guy, Carol?"

"I think so," Carol replied in her thick Spanish accent. She moved in to kiss and hug John. "Congratulations on all your success so far!"

"Thanks," John said. "But this is only the beginning. We still have a long way to go."

"But at least we're going somewhere," Kyle interjected, offering John his hand. "Hey, how did you like my right-in vote idea?"

"So that's who started it," John answered, wide-eyed. "I had no idea, of course. It totally took me off guard."

"Yeah, I personally ran around to every camp, pushing for people to vote for you," Kyle admitted. "Most didn't know they could do it, but it caight on like wildfire. I guess you owe me."

Kyle's comment sent a chill down John's spine. He stared back at his father, dumbfounded. "I certainly do," John replied.

Just then, Susan Nishimira approached John. She now had the star of a brigadier general adorning her collar. "What is it, general?" John asked.

"Mr. Connor," Nishimira replied, saluting. "It's nearly 1810 hours—time to start the evacuations."

"Right you are, general," John replied. "Any sign of Skynet activity?"

"Nothing unusual," Nishimira answered.

"All right, I'll get my people moving," John said. "You may begin preparing for battle. Keep me advised if anything changes."

"Yes, sir," Nishimira replied, saluting once again before spinning around smartly and striding away purposefully.

John flinched slightly in reaction to the honorific, but dismissed it from his mind by quickly calling over a runner. After whispering instructions into his ear, the boy ran off and Derek took his turn to question John.

"What's going on?" Derek said, worry clinging to his voice.

"Skynet's coming," John said. "Here. In about three hours. We're beginning to evacuate citizens now. You three should get outta here now."

"I'm not running from a fight," Derek retorted, almost as if he was insulted.

"It's okay, Derek," John replied. "Nishimira has a big surprise in store for them. She's done her homework on this one."

"Skynet's always been a step ahead of us, John," Derek said, shaking his head. "Remember the valley disaster? Wasn't that supposed to be a surprise too?"

"But we've made a real intelligence breakthrough here, Derek," John answered. "This time we have the edge."

Derek squinted his eyes and took in John before nodding his head in understanding. "Alright, John," Derek admitted. "Let's see what your general can do. I'm gonna get Carol back to our camp. But, I'll be back!"

"I'll stay here and help the civilians evacuate," Kyle added, nodding to his brother as he watched the two scamper away. "With your permission, of course, John."

John would have preferred his father exit the battle zone. "I'll agree as long as you stay with me," John replied, although he knew perfectly well that in the confusion that was certain to ensue, they would become separated.

"Kyle, you be careful," Derek shouted back to him. "I'll return in no time."

Part of Nishimira's plan was to have actual soldiers replace the civilians who left so that the number of individuals at the party was nearly constant. Weapons were hidden in various discreet places around the depot for the servicemen to retrieve at a moment's notice.

8:30 came and went, but the sentinels reported nothing. A little more than 300 civilians remained, so the evacuation was proceeding nicely. Still, John was restless as two irreplaceable members of his family—Allison and Kyle—were now joined by a third—the returning Derek, now heavily armed.

All things being equal, John would rather have all three off the premises immediately, but there were no words that could convey his concern without revealing secrets that must remain so. Instead, he ordered Kyle to escort Allison back to Serrano Point, a command that was vehemently opposed by the young woman.

"I'm not leaving," Allison protested. "Not without John."

Of course, John expected this, so he drew her in close. "Ally, let Kyle escort you back to base camp," he whispered. "Please. I'll be right behind you. I promise."

Allison may have been deeply in love with John, but she was no fool. "Absolutely not, Connor!" she said, grabbing him tightly on his upper arms. Her tone was just short of a yell, but loud enough for people nearby to stop and glare. "If you stay, so do I!"

John was ready to have this discussion with Allison, but not in public. Nevertheless, he _had_ to make sure the three of them got out.

It was a discussion of logical reasoning that he had countless times with himself. He _knew_ that he would survive long enough to send Kyle and Derek back through time. Otherwise, he couldn't possibly exist. His father needed to survive for obvious reasons and older Derek would save his life twice—once against Sarkissian's helper, once against the rogue terminator at Presidio Alto.

Of course, these deductions were pointless if he danced in minefields on a regular basis, so staying out of Skynet crosshairs was probably going to be a wise move as well.

But Allison's future was uncertain, other than the fact that she would be captured and probably killed by the machines. John knew this would happen—how else do they make an utterly perfect copy of her in the form of Cameron?

His quandry at the moment was how to inform her of this eventuality. John was prepared to lose her, but not right now.

"Ally, you have to go," John pleaded, gently taking hold of each of her hands. She was trembling with adrenaline and now tears began welling in her eyes. "You're too important to risk this close to the battle."

"Too important?" Allison cried, the tears now dripping down her cheeks. "What about you? _You're _the one too important to be close to a battle!"

"I don't know how to explain it to you, Ally," John said evenly, trying in vain to calm her. "You just have to trust me here. I _know_ that I will survive, but I can't guarantee anyone else's safety."

"Do you know how absurd that sounds, John Connor!" Allison said, glaring wide-eyed at him. "How can you possibly know that? How can anyone?"

John closed the distance between them so they were face-to-face. "If you don't believe me, then that's your choice," he whispered to her. "But you must go with Kyle. Now. Derek and his rifle will protect me."

The elder Reese dropped a round in the chamber and cocked his gun for reassurance. John tried a small smile.

But this time, Allison did not return the favor. Instead she whirled around and stormed off.

"Kyle, please make sure she reaches safety," John said. "And you be careful too."

"Thanks, John," Kyle answered. "Nothing will touch her."

John watched him run after Allison before turning to his uncle. Derek regarded his nephew with raised eyebrows.

"How _do_ you know these things, John?" Derek asked.

"What, you too?" John answered, trying to sound annoyed. "I need to get her out of danger. She won't listen to reason, so I tried an irrational approach. I guess it worked."

"Uh huh," Derek responded. "Like a charm."

An awkward silence lingered between the two for a moment.

It was broken by the loud shriek of mutiple aircraft engines directly overhead. Nine o'clock sharp. Skynet was nothing if not punctual.


	23. Love, reign o'er me

Warning to kaotic2: Sorry, but you will not like this chapter.

* * *

The reason that resistance lookouts had failed to detect the Skynet advance was that their normal approach—on foot, in plain view—was avoided this time. Instead, their arrival was sudden and relatively unexpected.

Twenty HKs, heavily laiden with terminators, screamed in at only 10 meters of altitude. Simultaneously, they unleashed their deadly cargo. The T-600s, 10 from each HK, were neatly dropped at predetermined coordinates all around the depot. The fall momentarily stunned the terminators, but all were battle ready within seconds.

In the drop of a hat, Skynet had bypassed all the resistance checkpoints. Fortunately, nearly all of the civilians had been evacuated.

From the far end of the depot came a voice enhanced by a bullhorn. "Everyone grab weapons and assume your positions!" said the voice, just short of panic-stricken. "The enemy is here!"

This was quickly followed by a mad scramble for the hidden firearms. Most had already done so in anticipation of the attack, but some were left without guns anyway.

John and Derek exchanged questioning looks. "Were you expecting this?" Derek asked.

"I was hoping for a little more advanced warning," John admitted.

"So much for the intel," Derek replied. John didn't argue with him.

He couldn't. Derek had barely uttered the reply when a large section of the north wall of the depot erupted in a ball of flame. Skynet had chosen their entry point.

Some sporadic fire responded to the wall's disintegration, but for the most part, an eerie silence lingered. Then, a solitary T-600 stood atop the pile of debris and scanned around, the glow of its red eyes plainly visible through a haze of dust and against the black background.

Derek took aim with his M-82, but John rapidly pressed the rilfe toward the floor. Derek quickly snapped his head up in annoyance, glaring at John.

"No, " John said. "Let them come inside."

Derek nodded and watched, but kept his rifle at the ready.

The first T-600, unsatisfied with its initial scan, marched down the pile and began investigating inside the depot. It was soon followed by another. And then another. Soon there were more than 100 terminators through the debris. Apparently, the Skynet strategy was to drive the humans through the remaining exit—the southern one—and directly into the balance of the T-600s outside.

Finally, some gunfire rang out from the west side of the depot. Instantly, the T-600s turned in unison and returned fire. But the firefight was short-lived. Still, more terminators flooded into the warehouse.

But where had everyone gone? All of the civilians had been evacuated, just as planned. However, just as many soldiers had replaced them. Some 1,500 were concealed in three 100-meter long perimeter trenches on each of the building's remaining sides—including John and Derek—and still more were covering the civilians retreating through the sewer.

The balance—one select company—remained concealed in the debris south of the depot. They had alerted their comrades of Skynet's unusual arrival. Now, they were just waiting for a signal.

Each trench took turns drawing the terminators' attention, all the while pulling them further inside. John was making a tally—150 was the magic number, and they had just reached it.

"Now, everyone down!" the voice blared through the bullhorn. All the soldiers complied.

Simultaneously, from behind the southern trench, appeared four massive gatling guns, each removed from their respective A-10s. The guns, normally used to destroy tanks and other vehicles, fire 30 millimeter depleted uranium rounds. Nothing short of a 5-meter thick wall can stop them.

The terminators had no chance.

Within 10 seconds the 150 T-600s were reduced to piles of scrap metal. They mustered a few ineffective shots, but the guns were remotely triggered by men in the trenches. There were no human casualties.

There were still 50 terminators left though—all outside. If the machines were capable of sensing danger, it apparently didn't matter. Fear was, of course, also foreign to their programming, so they merely awaited the pending attack, with scouts and lookouts at regular intervals.

The wait wasn't long.

In another planned move by Nishimira, the gatling guns had been mounted on wheels. Satisfied that all the terminators had been liquidated inside the depot, the resistance moved the batteries onto the depot's loading dock at the southern entrance. A large automated door opened and soldiers quickly manuvered the guns into position.

Skynet immediately opened fire, but they were quickly overwhelmed by volume. The resistance finally had the advantage and they pressed it home. The gatling guns were more than enough, but individuals, including Derek, felt the need to collect a few kills of their own.

The company of spotters in the debris stayed down, as planned, to avoid any stray rounds from the big guns. They were also there to eliminate any stragglers, but that task had been rendered superfluous.

Skynet's surprise attack had been crushed.

A mighty roar bellowed from the battle site while soldiers exchanged handshakes and hugs. Some even fired their guns into the blackness.

"Great effort tonight, soldiers!" the ubiquitous voice from bullhorn blared. "Now everyone back to base before the HKs return!"

John and Derek joined a mass of humanity that scrambled back into the sewers for the 15 minute walk back to Serrano. A small force remained behind at the depot to secure the area and protect the redeployment.

"I guess I was wrong," Derek admitted. "Looks like your general did her homework. This time."

John nodded in affirmation as the two walked briskly along. "It's a good start, no doubt," he said. "It's a nice inetelligence breakthrough, but Skynet has probably already realized that their security's been compromised."

"So what do we do know?" Derek asked.

"We keep after 'em," John said, after drawing a long breath. "It's gonna be a long struggle, but we have to keep analyzing their communications, break hundreds, even thousands of codes and transmissions before we reach our goal."

"What goal?" Derek replied.

John stopped and took a long whiff of the rancid sewer air, grimacing as he did so.

"For starters, I want to end our "scared rat" behavior," John answered. "I don't know about you, but I've had quite enough of this stench."

Derek gave John a wide grin and nodded. The two continued back to Serrano with the rest of the soldiers, a good 15 minute walk.

Their sojourn in the city's bowels finally over, John and Derek emerged to find a massive celebration beginning at Serrano. When the revelers spotted John, the noise increased tenfold, while soliders and civilians alike began gladhanding, hugging and even kissing him.

To say that John was overwhelmed may have been the understatement of the year. Derek saw his nephew's discomfort and arranged for a small escort, but it was a solid 10 minutes before they reached topside headquarters, a relative sanctuary.

John let go a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "That was a little crazy," he said, to no one in particular.

"One of the 'hidden' benefits of leadership," Derek replied, teasing.

"Terrific," John said. He then spotted Kyle and moved over to him. In spite of all that had transpired, only one thing was on his mind.

"Kyle, glad you're safe," John said. "Where's Ally?"

"I wish I knew, John," Kyle admitted. "I lost track of her—she bolted from me as soon as we got back."

"Oh, no!" John said, worry all over his face.

"Don't worry, though," Kyle quickly added. "I had all checkpoints contacted to make sure she couldn't leave the base."

This seemed to relax John, who nodded in appreciation.

"Thanks, Kyle," John replied. "I'll take it from here."

"She's pretty upset, though John," Kyle interjected. "She didn't say a single word to me on the way back."

"I understand," John replied. He was afraid something like this would happen, but it couldn't be avoided. He slapped his father on the shoulder in appreciation and then opened the door to Nishimira's topside HQ.

The general was conferring with a few members of her staff at her desk when John walked in. Nishimira stood up while the other three spun around to regard the newcomer. Simultaneously, all saluted.

John was taken aback, but did not want his surprise to show. He saluted back, despite his discomfort.

"Congratualtions, ladies and gentlemen, on a prefectly executed ambush," John said.

"It was slightly better than my predecessor's plan," Nishimira replied with a small smile. "Glad to see you made it back in one piece, Mr. Councilman."

"We all did," John answered. "Please give the council's thanks to all personnel involved in this historic action."

"I will, sir," the general said.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get some long overdue sleep," John added, before walking out.

He ran into Kyle and Derek as soon as he left the office.

"If you see Ally," John said, "Tell her 'I'm sorry.' She can find me in my office."

The brothers nodded in unison, watching their new leader walk away slowly.

"I don't think I've ever seen such an _old_ young man," Derek admitted.

Allison ran from Kyle the instant they reached Serrano. Kyle started to pursue, but he lost her in the maze of humanity. Personnel and civilians were milling about the base in anticipation of the battle.

Allison was lost in thought, but her survival sense—that strange, elusive quality that seemed inherent in every J-Day survivor—took her to an abandoned building next to the newspaper offices. She had come here often for solitude and thought, so it was the perfect place for her now. She nestled herself on the second floor, near a small window that gave her a perfect view of the whole compound.

And she waited for John, of course. He was all she cared about.

But Allison was very angry with him, probably the most upset she had ever been. How could he possibly _know_ that he alone was safe? She shook her head and frowned at the memory, but still, she waited.

Now, the internal battle raged. She couldn't reconcile his convoluted logic and was tired of his constant over-protection. On the other hand, she knew John was doing it out of love and nothing else. Then there were the lingering questions about his mysterious past. Allison shook her head, attempting to clear the confusion, but her bewilderment remained.

But then she saw him. John and Derek had returned; the former was mobbed by well-wishers.

Allison's heart raced. It had only been about 60 minutes since she had seen him last, but to her it had seemed an eternity. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she pressed her hand to the window, as if reaching for him.

She knew now what she must do.

John said he was returning to _The Resistance_ offices, but he knew where Allison had gone. Well, he suspected anyway—the building adjacent to the offices, where she often retreated for solitude. That was his best guess, anyway.

He pulled his hood low, doing his best to conceal his face from the partying mob. It worked for the most part, but his progress was slow as he constantly bumped into members of the crowd.

At last, he reached the building, but he was blocked by a set of doors that was tightly chained shut and boarded. But he had observed Allison contorting herself through one of the crevaces. Although he was not as svelte as her, he felt he could pull it off, especially if he held his breath. After considerable difficulty and fearing he had been ensnared twice, John finally rolled into the building in a summersault.

Pulling his hood back, he scanned around. He saw nothing except cobwebs, old, dusty desks, scattered, badly worn office furniture, lamps and chairs in what appeared to be a lobby. He then walked around and briefly scanned each room, softly calling her name, but he found no one. He saw the stairway leading to the second floor, but he figured that she had no reason to go up there because the bulidng was empty.

If he had bothered to look closely, he would have noticed Allison watching him. But John was exhausted and he decided that she would return here eventually. So he found the one office that had a mangled couch and plopped himself down, hoping to catch some sleep before she came back.

John fell fast asleep, but images kept flooding his thoughts. First was his mother, reminding him that _no one is ever safe_. Next was his first handshake with his father, something he would never forget. Then a cacophony of images washed through his mind—Derek, Hoth, Ellison, Nishimira, Kin, Bedell, Weaver—all of the people and things that had influenced him in his new life.

However, it always came back to Allison, of course. The love of his life was the most remarkable person he had ever met. Beautiful and strong, determined and tough, yet somehow remaining undeniably feminine. He wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with her.

But how long was the rest of her life? He was just trying to protect her, but the last time he had spoken to her, he sounded like a worried father at best, and an irrational idiot at worst. For this, he wordlessly cursed himself.

Suddenly he awoke. And found himself face-to-face with Allison. She was precariously perched on the couch next to John, but soon moved onto his lap.

John swallowed hard, but did not avert his eyes from hers. She returned the compliment.

"Ally, I'm so sorry…" John began, but he was cut off as Allison raised a finger to his lips and gently pinched them.

"No words," she whispered softly.

For the first time, John became aware of what Allison was wearing. Or rather, what she wasn't wearing.

Clad only in a hooded coat, which she promptly let drop to her lap, Allison pulled a large gray blanket over both of them as John labored to remove his pants. He drew a heavy breath as he took in all of Allison's angelic beauty.

"You're so beautiful, Ally," John whispered. Again, Allison shushed him with a finger to his lips.

She leaned down and kissed John amorously on his lips. He eagerly mimicked Allison's movements. Both trembled with adrenaline as they engaged in the delights of passion. Exploring regions of each other's bodies hitherto unknown, John and Allison united in the only way that could truly express their feeling for each other.

At Allison's direction, John tenderly kissed and caressed her cheek and neck, slowly working his way down her body. She moaned in satisfied delight as he did so, giving herself to John completely.

For Allison, time and space ceased to exist. It was the first time in a very long time, perhaps ever, that she felt so thoroughly safe and secure. In John's arms was where she had always needed to be.

John concentrated on the moment, trying to please Allison without appearing to be too selfish. Finally free of all of his own self-imposed restrictions, John couldn't help but feel a sense of completeness, unlike anything he had felt before.

Lost in the throes of passion, John and Allison eagerly drank up the wave of love that washed over them. With their respective missions accomplished, they fell asleep in each others arms, more content than they could have ever imagined.

A few hours later, John awoke first. All he could do—all he wanted to do—was stare at the vision of loveliness in his arms. He had been through quite a whirlwind with Allison, from her slap to his face to the ultimate expression of love and togetherness. It was enough to make John chuckle, in spite of himself.

This was sufficient to stir Allison awake. She immediately focused on him and smiled.

"Hello, beautiful," John said, returning the smile.

"Hello, my love," Allison replied.

"Ally, listen," John continued, trying hard not to lose himself in her beautiful brown eyes. "I want to apologize for before. I had no right saying those things to you. I just wanted you to be safe."

"I'm always safe when I'm with you," Allison countered. "You know that."

Allison immediately pulled John, tenderly but forcefully by his neck, to her and kissed him passionately on his lips. John hungrily drank her in.

"So," she said, releasing her grip, "Are you gonna tell me what happened to your mother?"

"She's alive," John replied, this time with no hesitation, locking eyes with Allison. "And I'm gonna find her."

* * *

That's all for part 1. Hope you enjoyed reading. Those yearning for a Cameron return will not be disappointed, but it's gonna take a while. I want to start "John Connor: Ascent" soon, but actual work and school could mean a delay.


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